H  A  (^  R  Y      AI^GUfRf. 


THE  EAST  I   KNOW 


THE  EAST  I  KNOW 


BY 

PAUL  CLAUDEL 

"Look  East,  where  whole  new  thousands  are  !" 

BROWNING 
TRANSLATED   BY 

TERESA  FRANCES 

AND 

WILLIAM  ROSE  BENET 


NEW   HAVEN:    YALE   UNIVERSITY   PRESS 

LONDON:    HUMPHREY    MILFORD 

OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

MDCCCCXIV 


COPYRIGHT,     1914 
First  printed  one  thousand  copies  October,  1914 


Yale  University  Press: 

.  .  .  I  should  be  most  happy  and  honored  if  my 
works  could  be  brought  to  the  attention  oj  the  Ameri- 
can public  under  the  shelter  and  patronage  oJ  the 
illustrious  University  oJ  which  you  are  a  part. 


March  28,   1 91 4 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Paul  Claudel vii 

I 895- I 900 

The  Cocoa  Palm i 

The  Pagoda 4 

The  City  at  Night 12 

Gardens 17 

The  Feast  of  the  Dead  in  the  Seventh  Month  .  22 

Thoughts  on  the  Sea 25 

Cities 27 

The  Theater 29 

Tombs  and  Rumors 33 

The  Entrance  to  the  Earth 39 

The  Religion  of  Letters _•      •     •  42 

The  Banyan 47 

Toward  the  Mountain .     .  49 

The  Great  Sea 52 

The  Temple  of  Consciousness 54 

October 56 

November 58 

Painting 61 

The  Solitary 62 

December 64 

Tempest 66 

The  Pig 68 

The  Source 70 

Doors 73 

The  River 76 

The  Rain 79 

Night  on  the  Verandah 81 

The  Splendor  of  the  Moon        83 

Dreams 85 

[v] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Heat 89 

The  Vision  oi-  a  City 91 

Descending  the   River 93 

The  Bell 95 

The  Tomb -^''T^  .  99 

The  Melancholy  Water 104 

The  Night  Voyage 106 

The  Halt  on  the  Canal 108 

The  Pine-Tree 113 

The  Arch  of  Gold  in  the  Forest 118 

The  Pedestrian 124 

Here  and  There 127 

The  Sedentary 138 

The  Earth  Viewed  from  the  Sea 142 

Salutation 144 

The  Hanging  House 148 

The  Spring 150 

The  Tide  at  Noon 153 

The  Peril  of  the  Sea 156 

On  Light i59 

Hours  in  the  Garden 162 

The  Brain 167 

Leaving  the  Land 170 

I 900- I 905 

The  Lamp  and  the  Bell 175 

The  Deliverance  of  Amaterasu 178 

A  Visit 187 

The  Rice 189 

The  Period 191 

The  Toast  to  a  Future  Day 193 

The  Day  of  the  Feast  of  all  the  Rivers    .     .      .  194 

The  Golden  Hour 197 

Dissolution 198 


[vi] 


PAUL  CLAUD  EL 

BY  PIERRE  CHAVANNES 

Reprinted  from  "  The  New  Statesman,"  London,  by  the 
courtesy  of  the  Editor 

/^LAUDEL  worked  for  more  than  twenty  years 
in  silence  in  an  almost  coinplete  obscurity. 
Nobody  ever  meyitioned  him  save  a  Jew  very  inde- 
pendent artists  —  Alirbeau,  Barres,  Schwob,  Gide, 
Jammes,  Mauclair  —  who  talked  about  him  amongst 
themselves  and  sometimes  even  dared  to  speak  about 
him  in  public,  without  awakening  an  echo. 

Moreover,  Claudel  was  usually  Jar  Jrom  France, 
Consul  in  various  towns  oj  the  Far  East;  he  published 
his  earlier  works  anoriy7nously,  lest  their  Catholic 
character  shoidd  damage  his  career,  and  Jor  a  long 
time  his  work  was  only  to  be  seen  in  the  small  literary 
reviews  and  in  special  editions,  oJ  which  a  very  synall 
number  oJ  copies  were  printed;  and  he  never  attempted 
to  advertise  himselj.  But  in  time  he  was  saddened  by 
this  great  solitude.  "One  grows  tired,"  he  wrote,  "oJ 
speaking,  as  it  were,  in  impenetrable  cotton-wool." 

These  latter  days  Claudel's  glory,  which  had  so  long 
been  obscured,  has  suddenly  blazed  Jorth,  ij  not  to  the 
great  public,  at  least  to  the  public  which  reads  and  is 
interested  in  literature.  The  Theatre  de  I'CEuvre 
has  played  one  oJ  his  dramas  —  L'Annonce  faite  a 
Marie;  the  Theatre  du  Vieux  Colombier  is  about  to 
play  another  —  L'Echange.  The  ordinary  news- 
paper critics  have  begun  talking  about  Claudel;   gen- 

[vii] 


PAUL     CLAUDEL 

erally  speaking,  they  refer  to  him  with  admiration, 
ojten  with  astonishment  and  that  kind  of  reserve  which 
marks  men  who  are  not  sure  that  they  understand,  and, 
fearing  that  they  are  deceiving  themselves,  do  not  wish 
completely  to  commit  themselves.  But  in  many  young 
reviews  admiration  is  carried  to  a  pitch  of  enthusiasm 
and  almost  of  worship;  and  to-day  writers  who  are  by 
no  means  young  rank  Claudel  with  the  small  company 
oj  the  very  great:  JEschylus,  Dante,  Shakespeare, 
Goethe. 

Reading  Claudel,  one  can  understand  this  long 
silence,  this  admiration,  and  also  this  reserve.  Claudel 
is  not  an  easy  poet:  when  one  penetrates  his  work 
one  is  transported  as  though  into  a  foreign  country. 
He  has  a  speech  peculiar  to  himself;  he  has  invented 
a  form  which  is  neither  prose,  nor  regular  verse,  nor 
ordinary  vers  libre;  his  work,  created  by  a  solitary 
man,  is  not  bound  up  with  our  troubles  and  our  daily 
life;  to  love  Claudel  one  must  be  initiated. 

He  is  a  poet,  in  itself  a  thing  rare  in  our  time;  but 
he  is  also,  and  some  would  say  primarily,  a  thinker. 
He  has  brought  his  dramatic  work  together  under  the 
general  title  of  L'Arbre,  just  as  Balzac  assembled  his 
immense  work  under  the  title  of  La  Comedie  Humaine. 
By  this  title  Claudel  wants  to  indicate  that  his  work  has 
the  sort  of  natural  profound  living  unity  of  the  tree, 
which  thrusts  its  roots  deep  into  the  nourishing  earth, 
and  draws  from  it  the  sap  which  rises  in  the  branches 
to  feed  the  remotest  sunlit  boughs.  Each  of  his  dramas 
also  is  a  drama  of  thought;  they  raise  the  greatest  prob- 
lems and  often  suggest  solutions.  Tete  d'Or  is  the  chief, 
the  commander  of  men,  the  conqueror,  who  is  driven 
to  great  deeds  by  an  immense  desire  —  as  it  were,  a 
[via] 


PAUL    CLAUDEL 

predestination.  The  weak,  whom  Cebes  symbolizes, 
the  people,  give  themselves  to  him;  he  carries  them  iii 
his  train  until  the  day  when,  undertaking  an  enter- 
prise beyond  mortal  strength,  he  loses  his  power  and 
dies  a  new  Prometheus  on  a  high  mountain.  La  Ville 
presents  contemporary  society  and  the  struggles  that 
rend  it,  and  the  great  attitudes  of  the  spirit  confronting 
life:  Isidore  de  Besme,  the  engineer,  the  savant,  is  the 
realist,  who  has  a  knowledge  of  natural  forces  and  uses 
them  to  satisfy  the  needs  of  men.  He  dominates  the 
town,  but  he  is  unaware  of  the  mystic  quality  of  things; 
he  wrongly  estimates  the  soul,  and  his  science  leads 
only  to  death.  Lambert  is  the  man  who  seeks  the  end 
of  life  in  the  play  of  ideas  and  the  love  of  woman. 
Coeuvre,  finally,  is  the  poet  who  enters  the  inmost 
shrine  of  truth  by  intuition  and  love,  but  is  condemned 
to  solitude  by  that  knowledge.  Le  Repos  du  Septieme 
Jour  is  an  ideologic  drama:  a  Chinese  Emperor  goes 
down  into  hell,  and  the  roots  of  the  moral  world  are 
laid  bare  in  a  Dantesque  vision,  a  kind  of  summary 
of  good  and  evil.  L'Echange  and  La  Jeune  Fille 
Violaine  are  dramas  of  sentiment.  In  L'Echange 
four  characters  are  set  agaiiist  the  brutal,  realistic, 
material  background  of  America.  There  is  Louis 
Laine,  an  adventurous,  but  feeble,  person  who  had 
stifled  in  the  too  rigid  enclosure  of  the  old  European 
societ}, ;  there  is  his  wife,  the  gentle  Marthe,  the  wife 
faithful  through  everything,  who  keeps  close  in  her 
heart  the  traditional  virtues  of  the  old  Christian  world; 
there  is  Lechy,  the  violent  woman  who  is  the  incarnation 
of  disorder,  and  spreads  it  around  her  and  death  with 
it;  and  there  is  Sir  Pollock,  the  man  of  affairs,  who 
only  lives  for  gold,  convinced  that  anything  can  be  bought 
[ix] 


PAUL    CLAUDEL 

ivith  it,  and  demands  Louis  Laines  wife  from,  him  for 
a  fistjul  oj  money.  La  Jeune  Fille  Violaine  is  the 
sublime  poem  of  a  holy  soul  which  enriches  itself  by 
stripping  itself,  and  arrives  through  suffering  and  re- 
nunciation to  peace  and  the  joy  of  an  angelic  death. 
In  L'Otage,  we  have  the  eternal  story  of  a  conflict 
between  that  which  remains  and  that  which  passes. 

It  is  impossible  in  a  brief  space  to  analyze  dramas 
so  laden  ivith  ideas,  but  one  can  indicate  the  size  and 
the  unity  of  the  work.  The  tree  that  Claudel  wants  to 
show  us  is  the  tree  of  life.  The  roots  are  in  Le  Repos 
du  Septieme  Jour;  the  sap,  the  desire,  in  Tete  d'Or; 
the  double-branching  —  the  ideas  of  the  mind  in  La 
Ville,  and  sentiment  in  L'Echange,  La  Jeune  Fille 
Violaine,  and  L'Otage.  Claudel  himself  has  formu- 
lated the  theory  and  doctrine  of  his  art  in  three  treatises 
brought  together  in  his  Art  Poetique. 

It  might  be  imagined  that  Claudel  was  a  mere  man 
of  books,  a  thinker  in  the  abstract.  He  is  nothing  of  the 
sort.  This  thinker  is  at  the  same  time  the  most  con- 
crete of  poets.  His  thought  is,  as  it  were,  swollen  with 
essential  sap.  And  he  expresses  it  in  a  flow  of  images 
taken  directly  from  things  and  exhibiting  them  in  their 
reality.  Claudel' s  originality  lies  in  this  double  aspect: 
the  unique  blend  of  the  highest  intellectuality  with  the 
richest  realism.  The  man  who  meditates  over  the  greatest 
problems  and  expounds  a  profound  logical  doctrine 
to  justify  his  work  is  at  the  same  time  a  primitive 
who  works  with  his  fresh  and  eager  eyes  fixed  on  Nature. 
His  dramas  never  lose  touch  with  the  earth  where  men 
live,  love,  and  suffer.  His  characters  are  greater  than 
Nature,  and  they  express  themselves  quite  naturally 
with  a  biblical  amplitude;    but  they  never  ring  false 

[x] 


PAUL     CLAUDEL 


and  they  often  move  us  deeply.  For  they  are  powerfully 
real  types  which  exist  and  which  one  often  remembers. 
These  two  elements  do  not  always  mingle  in  a  perfect 
harmony;  Claudel's  art  is  powerful,  but  it  is  not  easy: 
it  is  like  the  obscure  and  painful  work  of  germination. 
His  admirers  themselves  say  that  Claudel's  works  are 
like  symphonies  that  one  must  hear  several  times  before 
grasping  their  meaning  and  their  beauties,  and  that 
his  plays  are  beyond  the  capacity  of  the  present-day 
public. 

Claudel  is,  finally,  one  must  admit,  a  great  religious 
poet,  and  it  is  in  that  fact  that  the  deepest  unity  of  his 
work  must  be  sought.  His  work,  it  has  been  said, 
is  a  long  pilgrimage  towards  God;  and  the  road  has  not 
been  without  its  grievous  strugglings,  since  the  day  when 
in  his  youth  he  was  suddenly  converted  and  flung 
himself  towards  God,  but  without  winning  light  for  his 
reason.    "0  my  God,"  he  cries  years  after: 

I  remember  the  darkness  where  we  two  were  face  to  face,  those 
gloomy  winter  afternoons  in  Notre-Dame. 

I,  all  alone  below  there,  lit  up  the  face  of  the  great  bronze 
Christ  with  a  twopenny-halfpenny  taper. 

All  men  were  then  against  us,  science  and  reason;  and  I  re- 
plied nothing. 

Only  the  faith  was  in  me,  and  I  looked  at  You  in  silence  like 
a  man  who  prefers  his  friend. 

I  went  down  into  Your  sepulcher  with  You. 

Claudel's  whole  life  has  been  a  struggle  for  the  faith, 
for  he  is  one  of  those  men  for  whom  there  is  no  life  save 
i7i  God,  and  who  see  nothing  outside  faith  in  Him  save 
despair,  death,  and  annihilation.  A  somber  sadness 
burdens  those  first  dramas  which  tell  of  mayis  great 
struggle  to  dispense  with  God  and  his  check;  but  this 
gives  way  to  joy  in  proportion  as  Claudel's  faith 
[xi] 


PAUL     CLAUDEL 


Strengthens  and  grow  bright.  That  pilgrimage  towards 
God  is  also  a  pilgrimage  towards  joy;  and  that  joy- 
breaks  into  great  song,  now  austere,  now  delirious,  in 
Claudel's  properly  lyrical  work  —  the  Hymnes  and 
the  Cinq  Grandes  Odes.  Here  one  hears  only  the  most 
distant  echoes  oj  the  great  struggle;  here  are  only  cries 
oj  joy  and  certitude. 

Blessed  be  Tbou,  my  God,  Who  bast  delivered  me  Jrom  death.  .  .  . 

...  He  who  believes  not  in  God,  believes  not  in  Being,  and  he 

Who  bates  being,  bates  his  own  existence. 

Lord,  I  have  found  Thee. 

Who  finds  Thee  has  no  more  tolerance  of  death. 

A  strange  phenomenon,  this  Christian  poet,  passion- 
ately, uncompromisingly,  almost  fanatically  Catholic, 
in  the  country  where  Anatole  France,  the  bantering 
and  disillusioned  master,  holds  sway,  where  Renan 
and  Voltaire  reigned,  and  with  them  hard  reason, 
distrustful  of  the  supernatural. 

France,  as  Kipling  has  justly  said,  is  the  country 
most  faithful  to  old  things  and  most  wildly  enthusi- 
astic about  new  ones.  The  present  fashion  for  Roman 
Catholicism  counts  for  something  in  Claudel's  sudden 
vogue,  just  as  Claudel  has  done  something  to  bring 
about  the  fashion.  Various  writers,  tired  of  wandering 
farfromsafe  harbors,  have  "been  converted"  by  Claudel's 
appeal;  and  the  young  men  who  reproached  France 
for  withering  life  up,  and  for  lacking  the  "sense  of  the 
divine,"  have  found  in  Claudel  one  of  their  masters. 
It  is  the  perpetual  oscillation  of  the  human  spirit 
from  pure  reason  to  exalted  sentiment.  Claudel  stands 
bead  and  shoulders  above  the  little  crowd  which  sur- 
rounds him,  and  he  will  outlast  them  and  their  ways  of 
thought.  Most  of  us  must  say  to  him,  in  the  words  of 
[xii] 


PAUL    CLAUDEL 


one  of  his  own  characters,  "I  cannot  give  you  my  soul." 
But  we  love  the  poet  in  him  and  admire  the  passionate 
believer  who  compels  us  to  question  ourselves  in  the 
inner  silence,  the  man  who  made  for  himself  this 
prayer: 

Make  me  as  one  who  sows  solitude,  and  may  be  who  bears  my 

speech 
Return  borne  troubled  and  beavy. 


[xiif] 


1895 — 1900 


THE  EAST  I  KNOW 


THE  COCOA  PALM 

OUR  trees  stand  upright  like  men,  but 
motionless;  thrusting  their  roots  deep 
in  earth,  they  flourish  with  outstretched 
arms.  But  here  the  sacred  banyan  does 
not  rise  as  a  single  stem;  for  the  pendent 
threads,  through  which  it  returns  seeking 
the  fruitful  soil,  make  it  seem  a  marvelous 
temple  self-created. 

Observe  only  the  cocoa  palm.  It  has  no 
branches.  At  the  apex  of  the  trunk  it 
raises  a  tuft  of  fronds. 

Palm!  The  insignia  of  triumph.  Aerial 
in  the  hght,  consummate  bloom  of  the  crest, 
it  soars,  expands,  rejoices,  —  and  sinks 
beneath  the  weight  of  its  freedom. 

Through  the  warm  day  and  the  long 
noon  the  cocoa  palm  expands.  In  an 
ecstasy  it  spreads  its  happy  leaves.  Like 
infant  heads  the  cocoanuts  appear,  the 
great  green  fruit  of  the  tree. 

Thus  does  the  cocoa  palm  gesture,  re- 
veahng  its  heart;  for  the  lower  leaves, 
unfolding    from    out    their    depth,    reach 

[I] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 

penduleiit  to  the  earth;  and  the  leaves 
in  the  midst  spread  far  on  every  side;  and 
the  leaves  above,  uphfted  hke  the  hands  of 
an  awkward  man  or  Hke  one  who  signals 
his  complete  submission,  slowly  wave  and 
sign. 

The  trunk  is  nowhere  rigid,  but  ringed ; 
and  like  to  the  blades  of  the  grass,  it  is 
supple  and  long.  It  is  swayed  by  the 
moods  of  the  earth,  whether  it  strains 
toward  the  sun  or  bends  its  spreading 
plumes  over  swift  and  turbid  rivers,  or 
between  the  sea  and  the  sky. 

One  night,  returning  along  the  shore  of 
the  sea  assaulted  with  turbulent  foam  by 
the  whole  deep-thundering  weight  of  the 
leonine  Indian  Ocean  beneath  the  south- 
western monsoon,  —  as  I  followed  the  shore 
far-strewn  with  palms  like  the  skeleton 
wrecks  of  boats  and  of  lesser  and  living 
things,  I  saw  them  upon  my  left!  As  I 
walked  by  that  forest  empty  beneath  its 
dense-woven  ceiling,  the  palms  seemed 
enormous  spiders  crawling  obhquely  across 
the  peaceful  twihght  heaven! 

Venus,  like  a  moon  drowned  in  divinest 
light,  flickered  a  wide  reflection  in  the 
waters.  And  a  palm-tree  bent  over  the 
sea  and  the  mirrored  planet,  and  its  gesture 
offered  its  heart  to  the  heavenly  fire. 

[2] 


THE     COCOA     PALM 


I  shall  often  remember  that  night  when, 
afar,  I  yearn  to  return!  I  saw  the  leafage 
hanging  in  heavy  tresses,  and  across  the 
high  fane  of  the  forest,  that  sky  where  the 
storm,  setting  its  feet  on  the  sea,  loomed 
up  hke  a  mountain;  and  how  low  on  the 
dark  horizon  the  pale  pearl  of  the  ocean 
gleamed ! 

Oh  Ceylon,  shall  I  ever  forget  thee,  — 
thy  fruits  and  thy  flowers,  and  thy  people 
with  melting  eyes,  naked  beside  those  high- 
ways that  are  hued  like  the  mango's  flesh; 
and  my  rickshaw-man's  gift  of  nodding 
rosy  flowers  which  he  placed  on  my  knees 
when,  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  crushed  down 
by  sorrow  —  but  nibbling  a  leaf  of  cin- 
namon —  I  left  thee  at  last  beneath  thy 
rainy  skies. 


[3] 


THE  PAGODA 

I  DESCEND  from  my  carriage,  and  the 
sight  of  a  hideous  beggar  marks  the 
beginning  of  my  journey.  With  one  blood- 
shot eye  he  leers  at  me,  and  with  a  leprous 
hp  reveals  to  their  roots  teeth  bone-yellow 
and  as  long  as  those  of  a  rabbit.  The  rest 
of  his  face  is  eaten  away. 

Rows  of  other  wTctches  are  ranged  on 
both  sides  of  the  highway,  which  is  thronged 
at  this  outlet  of  the  city  with  pedestrians, 
messengers,  and  wheelbarrows  bearing 
women  and  their  bundles.  The  oldest  and 
grossest  of  the  men  is  called  the  King  of 
the  Beggars.  They  say  that,  crazed  by  the 
death  of  his  mother,  he  carries  her  head 
about  with  him  concealed  in  his  clothes. 
The  last  that  I  notice,  two  very  old  women, 
wTapped  in  swathings  of  rags,  their  faces 
black  from  the  dust  of  the  roads  where  they 
prostrate  themselves  at  times,  sing  one  of 
those  plaints  broken  with  long  sighs  and 
hiccoughs,  which  are  the  professional  ex- 
pressions of  despair  among  these  outcasts. 
I  can  see  the  pagoda  afar  off  between 
thickets  of  bamboo;  and,  crossing  the  fields, 
I  take  a  short  cut  toward  it. 

[4] 


THE     PAGODA 


The  country  is  a  vast  cemetery.  Every- 
where there  are  coffins;  on  hillocks  covered 
with  withered  reeds,  and  in  the  dry  grass, 
are  rows  of  little  stone  posts,  mitered  statues, 
or  hons  of  stone,  marking  the  ancient 
sepulchers.  Individual  wealth  or  burial 
associations  have  built  these  tombs  sur- 
rounded by  trees  and  hedges.  I  pass 
between  a  place  for  animals  and  a  pit  filled 
with  the  skeletons  of  Httle  girls  whose 
parents  wished  to  be  rid  of  them.  They 
have  choked  it  to  the  mouth.  It  will  soon 
be  necessary  to  dig  another. 

The  day  is  warm,  the  sky  clear,  I  walk 
in  the  hght  of  December. 

The  dogs  see  me,  bark,  and  run  away; 
I  reach  and  pass  the  villages  with  their  black 
roofs;  I  cross  the  fields  of  cotton  and  beans; 
I  cross  the  rivulets  by  the  old  worn  bridges, 
and,  leaving  on  my  right  the  great  empty 
buildings  of  a  deserted  powder-mill,  I 
arrive  at  my  goal.  I  hear  a  noise  of  bells 
and  a  drum. 

Before  me  is  a  tower  of  seven  stories. 
An  Indian  with  a  golden  turban,  and 
a  Parsee  wearing  a  plum-colored  one 
twisted  hke  a  stovepipe,  are  entering  it. 
Two  other  figures  move  about  on  the  highest 
balcony. 

I  must  speak  first  of  the  pagoda  itself. 

[5] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


It  is  composed  of  three  courts  and  three 
temples,  flanked  by  accessory  chapels  and 
lesser  buildings.  Rehgion  here  does  not, 
as  in  Europe,  barricade  and  segregate  in 
loneliness  the  mystery  of  a  faith  waHed 
about  by  dogma.  Its  function  is  not  to 
defend  the  absolute  against  exterior  aspects. 
It  estabhshes  a  certain  atmosphere;  and, 
as  though  suspended  from  heaven,  the 
structure  gathers  all  nature  into  the  ofi'ering 
that  it  constitutes.  Multifold,  all  upon 
one  level,  it  expresses  Space  by  the  rela- 
tions of  height  and  distance  between  the 
three  arches  of  triumph  or  the  temples 
which  are  consecrated  to  them;  and 
Buddha,  Prince  of  Peace,  inhabits  it  with 
all  the  gods. 

Chinese  architecture,  as  it  were,  sup- 
presses the  walls.  It  amphfies  and  mul- 
tiphes  the  roofs;  and  their  exaggerated 
corners,  Kfting  themselves  with  an  exquisite 
resihence,  return  toward  the  sky  in  flowing 
curves.  They  remain  suspended  in  air! 
The  wider  and  heavier  the  fabric  of  the  roof, 
the  more,  by  that  very  weight,  does  it  give 
an  impression  of  hghtness  through  every 
deep  shadow  projected  below.  Hence  the 
use  of  black  tiles,  that  form  deep  grooves 
and  strong  copings  with  high  openings 
between  them,  makes  the  highest  ridges 
[6] 


THE     PAGODA 


detached  and  distinct.  Clear  though  in- 
tricate of  outline,  their  frieze  is  hfted  through 
the  lucid  air.  The  temple  is  seen  as  a 
portico,  a  canopy,  or  a  tent,  of  which  the 
uphfted  corners  are  attached  to  the  clouds; 
and  in  its  shade  are  installed  the  idols  of 
the  earth. 

A  fat,  gilded  fellow  lives  under  the  first 
portico.  His  right  foot,  drawn  beneath 
him,  indicates  the  third  attitude  of  medi- 
tation, where  consciousness  still  exists. 
His  eyes  are  closed,  but  under  his  golden 
skin  can  be  seen  the  red  hps  of  a  distended 
mouth  whose  long  rounded  opening  stretches 
at  the  corners  into  the  shape  of  an  eight. 
He  laughs,  and  the  laugh  is  that  of  a  face 
asleep.  At  what  does  this  obese  ascetic 
laugh?  What  does  he  see  with  those  closed 
eyes? 

On  each  side  of  the  hall,  two  at  the  right 
and  two  at  the  left,  the  four  painted  and 
varnished  colossi,  with  short  legs  and  enor- 
mous torsos,  are  the  demons  who  guard 
the  four  shores  of  Heaven.  Beardless  as 
children,  one  brandishes  serpents,  one  plays 
the  viol,  and  one  shakes  a  cyhndrical 
engine  hke  a  closed  parasol  or  a  firecracker. 

I  penetrate  into  the  second  court.  A 
great  brass  incense-burner  covered  with 
inscriptions  is  in  the  middle.     I  stand  be- 

[7] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 

fore  the  principal  pavilion.  On  the  ridges 
of  the  roof  little  painted  groups  of  figures 
seem  as  though  they  were  passing  from  one 
side  to  the  other,  or  ascending  while  engaged 
in  conversation.  At  the  angles  of  the 
coping  hang  two  pink  fish,  their  long  feelers 
curving  tremulously,  their  tails  in  the  air; 
in  the  center  two  dragons  are  fighting  for 
the  mystic  jewel.  I  hear  songs  and  the 
beating  of  bells,  and  through  the  open  door 
I  see  the  evolutions  of  the  bonzes. 

The  hall  is  high  and  spacious.  Four  or 
five  colossal  gilded  statues  dominate  the 
background.  The  largest  is  seated  on  a 
throne  in  the  middle.  His  eyes  and  mouth 
are  closed,  his  feet  drawn  under  him,  and 
one  hand,  held  in  the  "gesture  of  witness," 
points  to  the  earth.  Thus,  under  the 
sacred  tree,  the  perfect  Buddha  conceived 
himself.  Escaped  from  the  wheel  of  fife, 
he  participates  in  his  own  Nirvana.  Others 
perched  above  him,  with  downcast  eyes, 
contemplate  their  navels.  These  are  the 
Heavenly  Buddhas  seated  on  lotus  flowers. 
They  are  Avalokhita,  Amitabha,  the  Bud- 
dha of  the  Light  without  Measure  and 
the  Buddha  of  the  Paradise  of  the  West. 
At  their  feet  the  bonzes  pursue  their 
rites.  They  have  gray  robes;  large,  some- 
what rust-colored  mantles  attached  to  the 

[8] 


THE     PAGODA 


shoulder  like  togas;  leggings  of  white  linen; 
and,  some  of  them,  a  sort  of  mortar-board 
on  their  heads.  Others  bare  their  scalps, 
where  the  white  marks  of  moxas  show  the 
number  of  their  vows.  One  by  one,  mur- 
muring, they  file  past.  The  last  who 
passes  is  a  boy  of  twelve  years.  By  a  side 
hall  I  reach  the  third  court  and  see  a  third 
temple. 

Four  priests  perched  on  stools  are  ranged 
inside  the  door.  Their  shoes  are  left  on  the 
earth  before  them;  and  without  the  need 
of  feet,  detached,  imponderable,  they  are 
seated  on  their  own  thoughts.  They  make 
no  movement.  Their  mouths,  their  closed 
eyes,  are  one  with  the  creases  and  wrinkles 
in  the  wasted  flesh  of  their  faces,  like  the 
scar  of  the  naveL  Consciousness  of  their 
inertia  is  sufficient  for  their  ruminating 
intelligence.  Under  a  niche  in  the  middle 
of  the  hall,  I  distinguish  the  shining  limbs  of 
another  Buddha.  A  confused  company  of 
idols  is  ranged  in  the  obscurity  along  the 
walls. 

Returning,  I  see  the  central  temple  from 
the  rear.  High  on  the  wall  of  an  embrasure 
a  many-colored  tympan  represents  some 
legend  among  ohve-trees.  I  re-enter.  The 
back  of  the  repository  where  the  colossi 
are  exposed  is  a  great  painted  sculpture: 

[9] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


Amitofou  mounting  to  Heaven  amid  flames 
and  demons.  The  setting  sun,  passing 
through  the  trcllised  openings  high  in  the 
wall,  sweeps  the  somber  boxlike  hall  with 
horizontal  rays. 

The  bonzes  continue  the  ceremony. 
Kneeling  now  before  the  colossi,  they  are 
intoning  a  chant,  while  the  celebrant, 
standing  before  a  bell  shaped  like  a  cask, 
leads  the  measured  beat  of  drums  and  bells. 
At  each  verse  he  clashes  the  drum,  drawing 
from  its  brazen  belly  a  re-echoing  vibration. 
Then,  facing  each  other  in  two  lines,  they 
recite  some  litany. 

The  side  buildings  are  the  dwellings  of 
the  priests.  One  of  them  enters,  carrying 
a  pail  of  water.  I  glance  into  the  refectory 
where  the  bowls  of  rice  are  placed  two  by 
two  on  the  empty  tables. 

I  am  again  before  the  tower. 

Just  as  the  pagoda  expresses,  by  its 
system  of  courts  and  buildings,  the  extent 
and  the  dimensions  of  Space;  so  the  tower 
symbolizes  Height.  Poised  against  the  sky, 
it  becomes  the  scale  of  it.  The  seven 
octagonal  stories  are  a  plan  of  the  seven 
mystic  heavens.  The  architect  has  nar- 
rowed their  corners  and  lifted  their  borders 
with  skill.  Each  story  casts  its  own  shadow 
below  it.     At  every  angle  of  every  roof  a 

[lo] 


THE     PAGODA 


bell  is  attached,  and  beside  it  hangs  the 
clapper  with  which  to  strike  it.  Their 
metalKc  syllables  are  the  mysterious  voice 
of  each  Heaven,  and  their  unuttered  sound 
hangs  suspended  like  a  drop. 

I  have  nothing  more  to  say  of  the  pagoda. 
I  do  not  know  its  name. 


[n] 


THE  CITY  AT  NIGHT 

IT  is  raining  softly.  The  night  has  come. 
The  policeman  takes  the  lead  and  turns 
to  the  left,  ceasing  his  talk  of  the  time 
when,  as  a  kitchen-boy  in  the  invading 
army,  he  saw  his  Major  installed  in  the 
sanctuary  of  the  "God  of  Long  Life." 
The  road  that  we  follow  is  mysterious.  By 
a  series  of  alleys,  of  passages,  stairs,  and 
doorways,  we  come  out  in  the  court  of  the 
temple,  where  buildings  with  clawlike  cop- 
ings and  hornlike  peaks  make  a  black  frame 
to  the  night  sky.  A  smoldering  fire  flickers 
from  the  dark  doorway.  We  penetrate  the 
blackness  of  the  halL 

The  cave  is  filled  with  incense,  glowing 
with  red  light.  One  cannot  see  the  ceiling. 
A  wooden  grille  separates  the  idol  from  his 
clients,  and  from  the  table  of  offerings, 
where  garlands  of  fruit  and  bowls  of  food 
are  deposited.  The  bearded  face  of  a 
giant  image  can  be  vaguely  distinguished. 
The  priests  are  dining,  seated  about  a  round 
table.  Against  the  wall  is  a  drum  as  enor- 
mous as  a  tun,  and  a  great  gong  in  the  form 
of  the  ace  of  spades.     Two  red  tapers,  like 

[12] 


THE     CITY     AT     NIGHT 

square  columns,  lose  themselves  in  the  smoke 
and  the  night,  where  vague  pennants  float. 

Onward ! 

The  narrow  tangle  of  streets,  where  we 
are  involved  in  the  midst  of  a  shadowy 
crowd,  is  ht  only  by  the  deep  open  booths 
which  border  it.  These  are  the  work- 
rooms of  carpenters,  engravers;  the  shops 
of  tailors,  shoemakers,  and  venders  of  fur. 
From  innumerable  kitchens,  behind  the 
display  of  bowls  of  noodles  and  soup,  the 
sound  of  frying  escapes.  In  a  dark  recess 
some  woman  attends  a  crying  child. 
Among  stacked-up  coffins  is  the  gleam  of 
a  pipe.  A  lamp,  a  sidewise  flicker,  shows 
strange  medleys.  At  the  street  corners, 
at  the  bends  of  heavy  little  stone  bridges, 
in  niches  behind  iron  bars,  dwarfish  idols 
can  be  seen  between  two  red  candles. 
After  a  long  progress  under  the  rain,  in 
the  darkness  and  filth,  we  find  ourselves 
suddenly  in  a  yeflow  bfind  afley  which  a 
big  lantern  fights  with  a  brutal  flare.  Color 
of  blood,  color  of  pestilence,  the  high  waHs 
of  the  dungeon  where  we  are  have  been 
daubed  with  an  ocher  so  red  that  it  seems 
of  itself  to  irradiate  fight.  The  door  at 
our  left  is  simply  a  round  hole. 

We  reach  a  court.  Here  is  another 
temple.     It  is  a  shadowy  hafl  from  which 

[13] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


exudes  an  odor  of  earth.  It  is  enriched 
with  idols,  which,  disposed  in  two  rows 
around  three  sides  of  the  place,  brandish 
swords,  lutes,  roses,  and  branches  of  coral. 
They  tell  us  that  these  are  the  years  of 
human  hfe.  While  I  try  to  find  the  twenty- 
seventh,  I  am  left  behind;  and,  before  leav- 
ing, the  fancy  takes  me  to  look  into  a  niche 
that  I  find  on  the  further  side  of  the  door. 
A  brown  demon  with  four  pairs  of  arms, 
his  face  convulsed  by  rage,  is  hidden  there 
like  an  assassin. 

Forward!  The  roads  become  more  and 
more  miserable.  We  go  past  high  pali- 
sades of  bamboo;  and  at  last,  emerging  from 
the  southern  gate,  we  turn  toward  the  east. 
The  road  follows  the  base  of  a  high  cren- 
ellated wall.  On  the  other  hand  sink  the 
deep  trenches  of  a  dried  river-bed.  Below 
we  see  sampans  ht  by  cooking  fires.  A 
shadowy  people  swarm  there  hke  the  spirits 
of  the  Inferno. 

And  undoubtedly  this  lamentable  river- 
bank  marks  the  end  planned  for  our  ex- 
ploration, because  we  retrace  our  steps. 
City  of  Lanterns,  we  gaze  again  upon  the 
chaos  of  thy  ten  thousand  faces ! 

Seeking  an  explanation,  a  reason  why 
this  town  where  we  loitered  is  so  distinct 
in  our  memories,  we  are  struck  at  once 

[14] 


THE     CITY     AT     NIGHT 

with  this  fact:  there  are  no  horses  in  the 
streets.  The  city  is  entirely  of  human 
beings.  It  seems  an  article  of  faith  with  the 
Chinese  not  to  employ  an  animal  or  a 
machine  for  work  by  which  a  man  may  hve. 
This  explains  the  narrowness  of  the  streets, 
the  stairs,  the  curved  bridges,  the  houses 
without  fences,  the  sinuous  windings  of 
the  alleys  and  passages.  The  city  forms  a 
coherent  whole,  an  industrious  honeycomb 
communicating  in  all  its  parts,  perforated 
like  an  ant-hill.  When  the  night  comes, 
every  one  barricades  himself.  During  the 
day  there  are  no  doors,  that  is  to  say  no 
doors  that  close.  The  door  here  has  no 
official  function.  It  is  simply  an  opening. 
Not  a  wall  but  can  by  some  fissure  give 
passage  to  an  agile  and  slender  person. 
The  large  streets  necessary  to  general  traffic, 
and  to  an  ordered  mechanical  fife,  would 
be  of  no  use  here.  Here  merely  collective 
alleys  and  passages  are  provided. 

An  opium  den,  a  market  of  prostitutes, 
these  last  fill  the  framework  of  my  memory. 
The  smoking  den  is  a  vast  nave,  empty  all 
the  height  of  two  stories  which  superimpose 
their  balconies  inside.  The  building  is 
full  of  blue  smoke,  one  breathes  an  odor 
of  burning  chestnuts.  It  is  a  heavy  per- 
fume, powerful,  stagnant,  strong  as  the  beat 

[15] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


of  a  gong.  Sepulchral  smoke,  it  estab- 
lishes between  our  air  and  dreams  a  middle 
atmosphere  which  the  seeker  of  these  mys- 
teries inhales.  One  sees  across  the  haze 
the  fire  of  httle  opium  lamps  Hke  the  souls 
of  the  smokers.  Later  they  will  arrive 
in  greater  numbers.     Now  it  is  too  early. 

On  narrow  benches,  their  heads  helmed 
with  flowers  and  pearls,  clothed  in  wide 
blouses  of  silk  and  full  embroidered  trousers, 
motionless,  with  their  hands  on  their  knees, 
the  prostitutes  wait  in  the  street  like  beasts 
at  a  fair,  in  the  pell-mell  and  the  dust  of 
passers-by.  Beside  their  mothers  and 
dressed  like  them,  also  motionless,  little 
girls  are  seated  on  the  same  bench.  Be- 
hind, a  flare  of  petrol  lights  the  opening 
to  the  stairway. 

I  go.  And  I  carry  the  memory  of  a  life 
congested,  naive,  restless;  of  a  city  at  the 
same  time  open  and  crowded,  a  single  house 
with  a  multifold  family.  I  have  seen  the 
city  of  other  days,  when,  free  of  modern 
influences,  men  swarmed  in  an  artless 
disorder;  in  fact  it  is  the  fascination  of  all 
the  past  that  I  am  leaving,  when,  issuing 
out  of  the  double  gate  in  the  hurly-burly  of 
wheelbarrows  and  litters,  in  the  midst  of 
lepers  and  epileptics,  I  see  the  electric 
lights  of  the  Concession  shine. 

[i6] 


GARDENS 

IT  is  half-past  three:  white  mourning.* 
The  sky  is  veiled  as  if  with  white  hnen. 
The  air  is  moist  and  raw.  I  go  into  the 
city.     I  am  looking  for  gardens. 

I  walk  in  a  black  gravy.  Along  the  ditch 
whose  crumbhng  border  I  follow,  the  odor 
is  so  strong  that  it  is  hke  an  explosive. 
There  is  the  smell  of  oil,  garhc,  filth,  ashes, 
opium,  and  offal.  I  walk  amid  a  free  and 
easy  people  who  are  shod  with  thick  buskins 
or  sandals  of  straw,  wearing  long  hoods  or 
skullcaps  of  felt,  their  silk  or  hnen  trousers 
tucked  into  leggings,    i 

The  wall  winds  and  undulates,  and  its 
coping,  an  arrangement  of  bricks  and  open- 
work tiles,  imitates  the  back  and  body  of 
a  crawhng  dragon.  A  sort  of  head  ter- 
minates it,  from  which  floats  a  cloud  of 
smoke.  This  is  the  place.  I  knock  mys- 
teriously at  a  httle  black  door  which  opens. 
Under  the  overhanging  roofs  I  cross  a 
succession  of  vestibules  and  narrow  cor- 
ridors.    I  am  in  a  strange  place. 

It  is  a  garden  of  stones.  .  .  .  Like  the 

*  White  is  the  color  of  Chinese  mourning. 

[I7l 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


ancient  Italian  and  French  designers,  the 
Chinese  have  understood  that  a  garden, 
from  the  fact  of  its  inclosure,  must  be  com- 
plete in  itself  and  harmonious  in  all  its 
parts.  Only  so  will  nature  adapt  herself 
to  our  moods,  and  only  so,  by  a  subtle 
harmony,  will  the  master  feel  at  home 
wherever  he  looks.  Just  as  a  landscape 
does  not  consist  simply  of  its  grass  and  the 
color  of  its  fohage,  but  is  distinguished  by 
its  outlines  and  the  slope  of  the  ground, 
so  the  Chinese  Kterally  construct  their 
gardens  with  stones.  They  are  sculptors 
instead  of  painters.  Because  it  is  suscep- 
tible of  elevation  and  depth,  of  contours  and 
rehefs,  through  the  variety  of  its  planes 
and  surfaces,  stone  seems  to  them  a  more 
suitable  medium  for  creating  a  background 
for  Man  than  are  plants,  which  they  reduce 
to  their  normal  place  of  decoration  and 
ornament. 

Nature  herself  has  prepared  the  materials. 
The  hand  of  Time,  the  frost,  the  rain,  wear 
away,  work  at  the  rock;  perforating  it, 
gashing  it,  probing  it  with  a  searching  fmger. 
Faces,  animals,  skeletons,  hands,  shells, 
bodies  without  heads,  petrified  wood  hke 
a  congealed  mass  of  broken  figures,  mingled 
with  leaves  and  fishes;  Chinese  art  seizes 
all  these  strange  objects,  imitates  them, 
[i8] 


GARDENS 


and     arranges  them    with     an     ingenious 
industry. 

This  garden  represents  a  mountain  cleft 
by  a  precipice,  to  which  steep  paths  give 
access.  Its  feet  bathe  in  a  little  lake  half 
covered  with  green  scum,  where  a  zigzag 
bridge  completes  the  bias  outhne.  Built 
upon  a  foundation  of  pink  granite  piles, 
the  tea-house  mirrors  in  the  greenish  black 
waters  of  the  basin  its  soaring  double  roofs, 
which  seem  to  Hft  it  from  the  earth  like 
outspread  wings. 

Below,  driven  straight  into  the  earth 
like  iron  candlesticks,  the  stripped  trees 
bar  the  sky,  their  giant  stature  dominating 
the  garden.  I  wander  among  the  stones 
by  a  long  labyrinth  whose  windings  and 
turnings,  ascents  and  evasions,  amphfy 
and  comphcate  the  scene,  simulating  the 
mazes  of  a  dream  around  the  lake  and  the 
mountain.  Finally  I  attain  the  kiosk  on  .7  - 
the  summit.  The  garden  seems  to  sink  ^^ 
below  me  hke  a  valley  full  of  temples  and 
pavihons,  and  among  the  trees  appears  the 
poem  of  the  roofs. 

They  are  high  and  low,  detached  and 
massed,  elongated  Hke  a  pediment  or  swell- 
ing hke  a  bell.  They  are  surmounted  with 
ornamental  friezes  decorated  with  centi- 
pedes and  fishes.     At  the  intersections  of 

[■9] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


their  ridges  the  peaks  display  stags,  storks, 
altars,  vases,  and  winged  pomegranates 
—  all  symbolic.  The  roofs,  lifted  up  at 
the  corners  hke  arms  which  hold  up  a  too 
ample  robe,  have  a  creamy  whiteness  or 
the  blackness  of  soot  yellowed  and  sodden. 
The  air  is  green,  as  when  one  looks  through 
old  window-glass. 

The  other  slope  brings  us  before  the  great 
pavihon.  The  descent  winds  slowly  toward 
the  lake  by  irregular  steps  leading  to  other 
surprises.  Coming  out  of  an  alley,  I  see 
pointing  in  disorder  toward  the  sky  five 
or  six  horns  of  a  roof  whose  building  is 
hidden  from  me.  Nothing  could  paint 
the  drunken  toss  of  these  fairy  prows,  the 
proud  elegance  of  these  flowering  stalks, 
holding  up  a  hly  to  the  envious  clouds. 
Bourgeoning  with  this  flower,  the  strong 
framework  hfts  itself  hke  a  branch  that  one 
lets  spring. 

I  reach  the  border  of  the  pond  where  the 
stalks  of  dead  lotus  flowers  he  across  the 
stifl  waters.  The  silence  is  as  profound  as 
the  depth  of  a  winter  forest.  This  har- 
monious place  was  built  for  the  pleasure  of 
the  members  of  a  Syndicate  of  Commerce 
in  beans  and  rice,  who  doubtless  come  here 
in  the  spring  nights  to  drink  tea  and  watch 
the  shore  ghmmer  under  the  moon. 

[20] 


GARDENS 


The  other  garden  is  more  singular. 

It  was  almost  night  when,  penetrating 
into  its  square  enclosure,  I  saw  it  filled  to 
its  walls  with  a  vast  landscape.  Picture 
a  mass  of  rocks,  a  chaos,  a  confusion  of 
overthrown  blocks,  heaped  up  together 
as  if  by  the  force  of  the  sea;  a  vision  of 
madness,  a  country  as  ghastly  as  a  brain 
with  its  convolutions  bared.  The  Chinese 
flay  their  landscapes.  Inexphcable  as  na- 
ture, this  little  corner  seems  also  as  vast 
and  as  complex.  Among  these  rocks  rises 
a  dark  and  twisted  pine-tree.  The  warped 
trunk,  the  color  of  its  bristhng  tufts,  the 
violent  dislocation  of  its  limbs,  the  dis- 
proportion of  this  single  tree  w^ith  the  arti- 
ficial country  which  it  dominates,  —  like 
a  dragon  issuing  from  the  earth  in  smoke, 
combating  the  wind  and  the  storms,  — 
make  this  place  unreal,  render  it  grotesque 
and  fantastic.  Here  and  there  funereal 
fohage,  yews  and  arbor-vitse,  in  their  vig- 
orous blackness,  intensify  this  cataclysm. 
In  my  amazement  I  ponder  this  melancholy 
document.  And  in  the  middle  of  the 
enclosure  one  great  rock  stands  in  the  dusk 
of  twihght  like  a  monster,  —  a  theme  of 
reverie  and  enigma. 


[21] 


THE  FEAST  OF  THE  DEAD  IN  THE 
SEVENTH  MONTH 

INGOTS  of  paper  are  the  money  of  the 
dead.  From  thin  cards  are  cut  the 
figures  of  persons,  houses,  and  animals. 
The  dead  man  must  be  followed  by  these 
fragile  imitations,  these  patterns  of  living 
things;  and,  if  burned,  they  will  accompany 
him  where  he  goes.  The  flute  guides  such 
souls,  the  beat  of  a  gong  assembles  them  hke 
bees.  In  the  shadowy  darkness,  the  bril- 
hance  of  a  flame  soothes  and  satisfies  them. 
Along  the  bank  of  the  river  the  prepared 
barges  wait  for  the  night  to  come.  Scarlet 
tinsel  is  fastened  to  the  end  of  a  pole;  and, 
whether  the  river  at  this  turning  seems  to 
derive  the  color  of  its  waters  from  a  leaden 
sky,  or  whether  it  moves  its  swarming  life 
mysteriously  under  accumulated  clouds, — 
stiH  the  torches  flare  at  the  prow,  the 
festoons  of  lanterns  toss  from  the  mast, 
brightening  the  gloom  with  a  vivid  note,  — 
as  a  candle  held  in  the  hand  in  a  spacious 
room  Hghtens  the  solemn  emptiness  of  the 
night.  Meanwhile  the  signal  is  given,  the 
flutes  shrill  out,  the  gong  sounds,  firecrackers 

[22] 


THE     FEAST     OF     THE     DEAD 

explode,  the  three  boatmen  lean  to  the  long 
scull.  The  barge  starts  and  tacks,  leaving 
in  the  wide  sweep  of  its  rudder  a  trail  of 
fire.  Some  one  is  strewing  Httle  lamps. 
Uncertain  glimmers  on  the  vast  flow  of  the 
opaque  waters,  these  flicker  a  moment  and 
perish.  An  arm  seizes  the  tinsel  streamer, 
the  bafl  of  fire  which  sinks  and  flares  in 
the  smoke,  and  touches  them  to  the  tomb 
of  the  waters ;  the  iflusory  brightness  of  the 
fight,  fike  the  gleaming  of  fish,  fascinates 
the  cold  drowned.  Other  ifluminated 
barges  go  and  come.  Far  off"  are  heard 
detonations,  and  on  the  war-ships  two 
bugles,  answering  one  another,  sound  to- 
gether the  extinguishing  of  the  fires. 

The  loitering  stranger  who,  from  the 
shore,  contemplates  the  vast  night  open 
before  him  fike  a  chart,  wifl  hear  the  return 
of  the  refigious  barge.  The  torches  are 
extinguished,  the  shrifl  hautboy  has  died 
away,  but,  over  a  precipitate  beating  of 
drumsticks,  dominated  by  a  continual  roH- 
ing  of  drums,  the  funereal  gong  continues 
its  tumult  and  its  dance.  Who  is  it  that 
beats?  The  sound  rises  and  faffs,  ends, 
recommences,  and  presently  sweffs  to  a 
clamor  as  if  impatient  hands  beat  on  the 
metal  hung  between  two  worlds.  Then 
solemnly,   beneath  the    measured    strokes, 

[23] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


the  gong  returns  a  deep  reverberation. 
The  boat  approaches.  It  passes  the  river- 
bank  and  the  fleet  of  moored  craft;  and 
now,  in  the  heavy  darkness  of  the  opium 
barges,  it  is  at  my  feet.  I  can  see  nothing; 
but  the  funeral  orchestra,  which  had  died 
away  for  a  long  interval,  now,  after  the 
fashion  of  dogs  that  howl,  explodes  again 
in  the  darkness. 

This  is  the  feast  of  the  seventh  month 
when  the  earth  enters  into  its  repose. 
Along  the  road  the  rickshaw-runners  have 
stuck  in  the  earth  between  their  feet  sticks 
of  incense  and  little  red  candle-ends.  I 
must  return.  Tomorrow  I  shah  come  to  sit 
in  the  same  place.  It  is  all  over;  and  still, 
like  the  sightless  dead  sunk  beneath  an 
infinity  of  waves,  I  hear  the  tone  of  the 
sepulchral  sistrum,  the  clamor  of  iron 
drums  beaten  with  terrible  blows  in  the 
close  darkness. 


[24] 


THOUGHTS  ON  THE  SEA 

THE  boat  makes  her  way  between  the 
islands;  the  sea  is  so  calm  that  it 
scarcely  seems  to  exist.  Eleven  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  and  it  is  hard  to  tell  whether 
or  not  it  is  raining. 

The  thoughts  of  the  voyager  turn  to  the 
past  year.  He  sees  again  his  trip  across 
the  ocean  in  the  stormy  night;  the  ports, 
the  stations,  the  arrival  on  Shrove  Sun- 
day, the  trip  to  the  house  when,  with  a  cold 
eye,  he  scanned  the  sordid  festivities  of  the 
crowd  through  the  mud-spattered  windows 
of  his  carriage.  His  thoughts  show  him 
again  his  parents,  his  friends,  old  scenes, — 
and  then  the  new  departure.  Unhappy 
retrospect!  As  if  it  were  possible  for  any- 
one to  retrieve  his  past. 

It  is  this  that  makes  the  return  sadder 
than  the  departure.  The  voyager  re-enters 
his  home  as  a  guest.  He  is  a  stranger  to 
all,  and  all  is  strange  to  him.  (Servant, 
hang  up  the  travehng  cloak  and  do  not 
carry  it  away!  Soon  it  will  be  necessary  to 
depart  once  more.)  Seated  at  the  family 
table  he  is  a  suspected  guest,  ill  at  ease. 

[25] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


No,  parents,  it  is  never  the  same!  This  is 
a  passer-by  whom  you  have  received,  his 
ears  filled  with  the  fracas  of  trains  and  the 
clamor  of  the  sea,  hke  a  man  who  imagines 
that  he  still  feels  beneath  his  feet  the  pro- 
found movement  that  lures  him  away. 
He  is  not  the  same  man  whom  you  con- 
ducted to  the  fateful  wharf.  The  separation 
has  taken  place  and  he  has  entered  upon 
the  exile  that  follows  it! 


[26] 


CITIES 

AS  there  are  books  on  beehives,  on 
colonies  of  birds'  nests,  or  on  the  con- 
stitution of  coral  islands,  why  should  we 
not  study  thus  the  cities  of  humanity? 

Paris,  the  capital  of  the  Kingdom,  uni- 
form and  concentric  in  its  development, 
expands,  as  it  grows,  into  a  larger  likeness 
of  the  island  to  which  it  was  once  confined. 
London  is  a  juxtaposition  of  stores,  ware- 
houses, and  factories.  New  York  is  a 
railway  terminal,  built  of  houses  between 
tracks.  It  is  a  pier  for  landing,  a  great 
Jetty  flanked  by  wharves  and  warehouses. 
Like  the  tongue,  which  receives  and  divides 
its  food,  hke  the  uvula  at  the  back  of  the 
throat  placed  between  two  channels.  New 
York,  between  her  two  rivers,  the  North 
and  the  East,  has  set  her  docks  and  her 
storehouses  on  one  side.  Long  Island; 
on  the  other,  by  Jersey  City  and  the  dozen 
railway  lines  which  range  their  depots 
on  the  embankment  of  the  Hudson,  she 
receives  and  sends  out  the  merchandise 
of  all  the  Western  continent.  The  active 
part  of  the  city,  composed  entirely  of 
banks,   exchanges,   and    offices,   is   on  the 

[27] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


tip  of  this  tongue,  which  —  not  to  push  this 
figure  too  far  —  moves  incessantly  from  one 
end  to  the  other. 

Boston  is  composed  of  two  parts:  the 
new  city,  pedantic  and  miserly,  hke  a  man 
who,  displaying  his  riches  and  his  virtue, 
yet  guards  them  for  himself,  —  where  the 
streets,  open  on  all  sides  to  avenues,  seem 
to  become  more  silent  and  longer  in  the  cold, 
and  to  hsten  with  more  spite  to  the  step 
of  the  passer-by  who  follows  them,  grinding 
his  teeth  in  the  blast;  and  the  hill  where  the 
old  city,  like  a  snail-shell,  contains  all  the 
windings  of  traffic,  debauchery,  and 
hypocrisy. 

The  streets  of  Chinese  cities  are  made 
for  a  people  accustomed  to  walking  in  single 
file;  each  individual  takes  his  place  in  an 
interminable,  endless  line.  Between  the 
houses  resembhng  boxes  with  one  side 
knocked  out,  where  the  inhabitants  sleep 
pell-mell  among  the  merchandise,  these 
narrow  fissures  are  insinuated. 

Are  there  not  special  points  for  study? 
The  geometry  of  streets,  the  measurement 
of  turnings,  the  calculus  of  crowded  thor- 
oughfares, the  disposition  of  avenues?  Is 
not  all  movement  parallel  to  these,  and 
all  rest  or  pleasure  perpendicular? 

A  book  indeed! 

[28] 


THE  THEATER 

THE  palace  of  the  Corporation  of  Canton 
has  a  niche  for  its  golden  god,  —  an 
inner  hall  where  great  seats,  placed  sol- 
emnly about  the  center,  indicate  rather 
than  invite  repose.  And,  as  European  clubs 
would  place  a  hbrary,  they  have  estabhshed 
a  theater,  with  parade  and  pomp,  on  the 
far  side  of  the  court  which  is  in  front  of  the 
whole  building.  It  is  a  terrace  of  stone 
deep  in  between  two  buildings.  Consist- 
ing only  of  a  difference  in  level,  the  stage 
between  the  wings  and  the  crowd  is  simply 
a  wide,  flat  space  above  their  heads.  A 
square  canopy  like  that  of  a  dais  shades 
and  consecrates  it.  Another  portico  in 
the  foreground,  framing  it  in  four  pillars 
of  granite,  confers  on  it  solemnity  and 
distance.  Here  comedy  develops,  legends 
are  told,  the  vision  of  the  things  which  are 
to  be  reveals  itself  in  roHing  thunder. 

The  curtain,  comparable  to  that  veil 
which  divides  us  from  the  world  of  dreams, 
does  not  exist  here.  But  as  if  each  soul, 
in  discarding  its  disguises,  were  held  in  an 
impenetrable  tissue,  whose  colors  and  elu- 

[29] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


sive  brightness  are  like  the  livery  of  night; 
each  actor  in  his  silken  draperies  shows 
nothing  of  himself  but  the  movement  when 
he  stirs.  Beneath  the  plumage  of  his  part 
the  golden  headdress,  the  face  hidden  under 
rouge  and  mask,  he  is  no  more  than  a 
gesture  and  a  voice.  The  emperor  mourns 
over  his  lost  kingdom,  the  unjustly  accused 
princess  flees  from  monsters  and  savages, 
armies  defile,  combats  take  place,  a  gesture 
effaces  years  and  distances,  debates  proceed 
before  the  elders,  the  gods  descend,  the 
genie  arises  from  the  jar.  But  never  does 
any  one  of  the  persons  engaged  in  the 
execution  of  a  chant  or  of  a  complicated 
dance  deviate  from  the  rhj^thm  and  the 
harmonies  which  time  the  measure  and  rule 
the  evolutions,  any  more  than  he  would 
throw  off"  his  clothes. 

The  orchestra  at  the  back,  —  which 
throughout  the  piece  continues  its  evocatory 
tumult,  as  if,  hke  swarms  of  bees  that  re- 
assemble at  the  beating  of  a  caldron,  the 
scenic  phantoms  would  dissipate  if  there 
were  silence,  —  has  less  a  musical  role  than 
the  service  of  sustaining  the  whole,  playing 
(if  we  may  call  this  prompting  music)  and 
answering  for  a  chorus  of  the  populace. 
It  is  the  music  which  accelerates  or  moder- 
ates the  movement,  which  heightens  with 

[30] 


THE     THEATER 


an  accent  more  acute  the  discourse  of  the 
actor,  or  which,  surging  up  behind  him, 
brings  to  his  ears  clamor  and  rumor.  There 
are  guitars,  bits  of  wood  that  are  beaten 
hke  tympans,  that  are  clashed  like  castanets; 
a  sort  of  monochord  viohn  which,  like  a 
fountain  in  a  solitary  court,  by  the  thread 
of  its  plaintive  melody,  carries  the  develop- 
ment of  the  elegy;  and  finally,  in  the  heroic 
movements,  the  trumpet.  It  is  a  sort  of 
bugle  of  brass,  of  which  the  sound,  charged 
with  harmonies,  has  an  incredible  brilliance 
and  a  terrible  stridence.  It  is  hke  the 
braying  of  an  ass,  hke  a  shout  in  the  desert, 
a  flourish  to  the  sun,  the  clamor  voHeyed 
from  the  diaphragm  of  an  elephant.  But 
the  gongs  and  cymbals  hold  the  principal 
place.  Their  discordant  racket  excites  and 
stimulates  the  emotions,  deafening  thought, 
which  in  a  sort  of  dream  sees  only  the  spec- 
tacle before  it.  Meanwhile  at  one  side  of 
the  scene,  hung  in  a  cage  of  woven  rushes, 
are  two  birds  hke  turtledoves.  These  it 
seems  are  pelitze  brought  from  Tientsin. 
Competing  innocently  with  the  uproar  in 
which  they  bathe,  they  jet  a  song  of  celestial 
sweetness. 

The  hall  under  the  second  portico,  and 
the  entire  court,  is  stufi'ed  as  fufl  as  a  pie 
with  hving  heads.     Among    them   emerge 

[31] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


the  pillars,  and  two  lions  of  sandstone  with 
froglike  jaws  whose  heads  are  bonneted 
with  children.  It  is  a  pavement  of  skulls 
and  round  yellow  faces,  so  closely  packed 
that  the  limbs  and  bodies  cannot  be  seen. 
Pressed  together,  the  hearts  of  the  crowd 
beat  one  against  the  other.  It  oscillates 
with  but  one  movement.  Sometimes, 
stretching  a  row  of  arms,  it  surges  against 
the  stone  wall  of  the  stage;  sometimes, 
withdrawing,  is  hidden  by  the  sides.  In 
the  upper  galleries,  the  wealthy  and  the 
mandarins  smoke  their  pipes  and  drink  tea 
in  cups  with  brass  saucers,  surveying  like 
gods  both  spectacle  and  spectators.  As 
the  actors  themselves  are  hidden  in  their 
robes,  so,  as  it  enters  each  bosom,  does  the 
drama  stir  under  the  living  stuff  of  the 
crowd. 


[32] 


TOMBS  AND  RUMORS 

WE  climb  and  then  descend;  we  pass 
by  the  great  banyan  which,  like 
Atlas,  settling  himself  powerfully  on  his 
contorted  haunches,  seems  awaiting  with 
knee  and  shoulder  the  burden  of  the  sky. 
At  his  feet  there  is  a  httle  edifice  where  are 
burned  all  papers  marked  with  black  char- 
acters, as  if  a  sacrifice  of  writing  was  offered 
to  the  god  of  the  tree. 

We  turn  and  turn  again,  and  by  a  sinuous 
road  we  enter  into  a  country  of  tombs. 
Not,  indeed,  that  they  were  not  everywhere, 
because  our  steps  since  our  departure 
have  been  accompanied  by  them.  The 
evening  star,  Hke  a  saint  praying  in  soli- 
tude, sees  the  sun  disappear  beneath  her 
under  the  deep  and  diaphanous  waters. 
The  funereal  region  that  we  scan  in  the 
paHid  Hght  of  a  dreary,  waning  day,  is 
covered  with  a  rude  and  yellow  growth  hke 
the  pelt  of  a  tiger.  From  the  base  to  the 
ridge  are  hillocks  between  which  our  road 
winds;  and,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  val- 
ley, as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  are  moun- 

[33] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


tains  burrowed  like  a  rabbit-warren  with 
tombs. 

In  China  death  holds  as  great  a  place  as 
life.  As  soon  as  they  have  gone  the  dead 
become  more  important  and  more  to  be 
suspected,  enduring  as  morose  and  malevo- 
lent powers  whom  it  is  well  to  conciliate. 
The  bonds  between  the  living  and  the  dead 
are  broken  with  difficulty.  The  rites  con- 
tinue and  are  perpetuated.  The  living 
must  go  frequently  to  the  family  tomb. 
They  burn  incense,  fire  off  crackers,  and 
offer  rice  and  pork.  In  the  shape  of  a  scrap 
of  paper  they  leave  a  visiting-card  held  in 
place  with  a  pebble.  The  dead  in  their 
thick  coffins  rest  a  long  time  inside  the 
house.  Then  they  are  carried  out  of  doors 
and  piled  up  in  low  sheds,  until  the 
geomancer  has  found  the  proper  site  and 
location.  Then  the  final  resting-plac^  is 
determined  on  with  great  particularity,  for 
fear  that  the  dissatisfied  spirits  should 
wander  elsewhere.  They  cut  the  tombs 
in  the  sides  of  mountains,  in  the  solid  and 
primordial  earth;  and,  while  the  fiving, 
in  unhappy  multitudes,  are  crowded  in 
valley-bottoms,  in  low  and  malarial  plains, 
the  dead  open  their  dwellings  to  sun  and 
space  in  high  and  airy  places. 

The  form  of  an  Omega  is  chosen,  placed 

[34] 


TOMBS     AND     RUMORS 

flat  against  the  hill-slope;  and  the  semi- 
circle of  stone,  completed  by  the  brace, 
surrounds  the  dead  person,  who  makes  a 
mount  in  the  center  like  a  sleeper  under 
his  coverings.  It  is  thus  that  the  earth, 
opening  her  arms,  makes  him  her  own 
and  consecrates  him  to  herself.  In  front 
is  placed  the  tablet  inscribed  with  the 
titles  and  names;  because  the  Chinese 
beheve  that  certain  portions  of  the  soul, 
that  stop  to  read  the  name,  linger  above 
the  tomb.  This  tablet  forms  the  reredos 
of  a  stone  altar  on  which  are  deposited  the 
symmetrically  arranged  offerings.  In  front 
of  this  the  tomb,  by  the  formal  arrangement 
of  its  terraces  and  balustrades,  welcomes 
and  receives  the  living  family  who  go  there 
on  solemn  days  to  honor  the  remains  of  the 
deceased  ancestor.  Primordial  and  testa- 
mentary hieroglyph!  Facing  it,  the  hemi- 
cycle  reverberates  the  invocation.  All  earth 
which  is  above  the  level  of  mud  is  occupied 
by  these  vast  low  tombs,  like  the  openings 
of  pits  crammed  full.  There  are  little  ones, 
simple  ones  and  elaborate,  some  new  and 
others  which  seem  as  old  as  the  rocks  where 
they  lean.  The  most  important  are  high 
on  the  mountain,  as  if  in  the  folds  of  its 
neck.  A  thousand  men  together  could  kneel 
in  this  tomb. 

[35] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


I  myself  live  in  this  country  of  sepulchers, 
and  by  a  different  road  I  regain  my  house 
on  the  summit  of  the  hill. 

The  town  is  below  on  the  other  side  of 
the  wide  yellow  river  Min,  which  precipi- 
tates its  deep  and  violent  waters  between 
the  arches  of  the  Bridge  of  Ten  Thousand 
Ages.  During  the  day  one  can  see,  like 
the  copings  of  the  tombs,  the  rampart  of 
jagged  mountains  that  enclose  the  city. 
The  flying  pigeons  and  the  tower  in  the 
middle  of  a  pagoda  make  one  feel  the  im- 
mensity of  this  distance.  And  I  can  see 
the  two-horned  roofs,  two  wooded  hills 
rising  between  the  houses,  and  on  the  river 
a  confusion  of  wooden  rafts  and  junks  whose 
poops  are  painted  with  pictures.  But  now 
it  is  too  dark.  Scarcely  a  fire  pricks  the 
dusk  and  the  mist  beneath  me,  and  by  a 
road  I  know,  shpping  into  the  funereal 
darkness  of  the  pines,  I  gain  my  habitual 
post,  this  great  triple  tomb  blackened  with 
moss  and  age,  oxidized  like  armor,  which 
thrusts  its  frowning  parapet  obliquely  into 
space. 

I  come  here  to  listen. 

Chinese  cities  have  neither  factories  nor 
vehicles.  The  only  noise  that  can  be  heard, 
when  evening  comes  and  the  fracas  of  trade 
ceases,    is   the   human   voice.     I    come   to 

[36] 


TOMBS     AND     RUMORS 

listen  for  that;  for,  when  one  loses  interest 
in  the  sense  of  the  words  that  are  offered 
him,  he  can  still  lend  them  a  more  subtle 
ear.  Nearly  a  million  inhabitants  live  here. 
I  listen  to  the  speech  of  this  multitude  far 
under  a  lake  of  air.  It  is  a  clamor  at  once 
torrential  and  crackling,  shot  through  with 
sudden  abrupt  rips  like  the  tearing  of 
paper.  I  am  sure  one  can  distinguish  now 
and  then  a  note  and  its  modulations,  as 
one  does  a  chord  on  a  drum,  by  putting  his 
fingers  on  the  right  places.  Has  the  city 
a  different  murmur  at  different  times  in 
the  day?  I  propose  to  test  it.  At  this 
moment  it  is  evening.  They  are  volubly 
publishing  the  day's  news.  Each  one 
beheves  that  he  alone  is  speaking.  He 
recounts  quarrels,  meals,  household 
happenings,  family  affairs,  his  work,  his 
commerce,  his  pohtics.  But  his  words  do 
not  perish.  They  carry  —  part  of  the  in- 
numerable additions  to  the  collective  voice. 
Shorn  of  their  meaning  they  continue 
only  as  the  uninteHigible  elements  of  the 
sound  which  carries  them;  utterance,  in- 
tonation, accent.  As  there  is  a  mingling 
of  sounds,  is  there  a  blending  of  the  sense? 
And  what  is  the  grammar  of  this  general 
discourse?     Guest  of  the  dead,  I  listen  long 

[37] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


to  the  murmur,  the  noise  that  the  living 
make  afar! 

Now  it  is  time  to  return.  The  pines, 
between  whose  high  shafts  I  pursue  my 
road,  deepen  the  shadows  of  night.  It 
is  the  hour  when  one  commences  to  see 
the  fire-flies,  hearth  fires  of  the  grass.  As 
in  the  depth  of  meditation  an  intuition 
passes,  so  quickly  that  the  spirit  can 
perceive  merely  a  ghmmer,  a  sudden  in- 
dication; so  this  impalpable  crumb  of 
fire  burns,  and  in  the  same  moment  is 
extinguished. 


[38] 


THE  ENTRANCE  TO  THE   EARTH 

RATHER  than  assail  the  escarpments 
of  the  mountain  with  the  iron  point 
of  my  stick  I  should  prefer  to  see,  from  this 
low,  flat  plain  across  which  I  wander,  the 
mountains  seated  around  me  like  a  hundred 
ancient  men  in  the  glory  of  the  afternoon. 
The  sun  of  Pentecost  illumines  the  earth, 
swept  and  garnished  and  impressive  as  a 
church.  The  air  is  so  cool  and  so  clear 
that  it  seems  as  if  I  walked  naked.  All  is 
peace.  One  hears  on  all  sides,  like  the  cry 
of  a  flute,  the  notes  of  chain-pumps  in  uni- 
son, drawing  water  from  the  fields  (three 
by  three,  the  men  and  women  beat  upon 
the  triple  wheel,  their  arms  hooked  to  the 
beam,  their  laughing  faces  covered  with 
sweat),  and  a  friendly  territory  opens  before 
the  steps  of  the  walker. 

I  measure  with  my  eyes  the  circuit  I  must 
follow.  I  know  how,  from  the  top  of  the 
mountain,  the  plain  with  its  fields  will 
resemble  an  old  stained-glass  window  with 
irregular  panes  set  in  a  network  of  lead. 
By  straight  footpaths  of  the  earth  that 
frames  the  rice-fields,  I  finally  begin  on  the 
paved  way. 

[39] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


It  crosses  the  rice-fields,  the  orange  groves, 
the  villages,  —  guarded  at  one  outlet  by 
their  great  banyan  (the  Father  to  whom  all 
the  children  of  the  country  are  brought 
for  adoption)  and  at  the  other,  not  far  from 
the  wells  of  water  and  pits  of  manure,  by 
the  fane  of  the  local  gods  who,  both  armed 
from  head  to  foot  with  bow  at  belly,  painted 
on  the  gate,  roll  their  tri-colored  eyes 
toward  each  other.  And,  as  I  advance 
turning  my  head  from  right  to  left,  I  taste 
slowly  the  changes  of  the  hours,  because, 
as  a  perpetual  wayfarer,  a  wise  judge  of 
the  length  of  shadows,  nothing  of  the 
august  ceremony  of  the  day  escapes  me. 
Drunk  with  beholding,  I  understand  it  all. 
This  bridge  still  to  cross  in  the  peace  of 
the  lunch  hour,  these  hills  to  climb  and  to 
descend,  this  valley  to  traverse;  and  already 
I  see,  between  three  pines,  the  steep  rock 
where  I  must  take  up  my  post  to  assist  at 
the  crowning  ceremony  of  that  which  was 
a  day. 

It  is  the  moment  of  solemn  reception  when 
the  sun  crosses  the  threshold  of  the  earth. 
Fifteen  hours  ago  it  passed  the  line  of  the 
illimitable  sea;  and,  like  an  eagle  resting 
motionless  on  its  wings  to  examine  the 
country  from  afar,  it  has  gained  the  highest 
part  of  the  sky.  Now  it  dcchnes  its  course 
[40] 


THE     ENTRANCE     TO     THE     EARTH 

and  the  earth  opens  to  receive  it.  The  gorge 
to  which  the  sun  sets  its  mouth  disappears 
under  the  level  rays  as  if  it  were  devoured 
by  fire.  The  mountain  where  a  conflagra- 
tion has  flared  up  hke  a  crater,  sends  toward 
the  sky  an  enormous  column  of  smoke. 
And  below,  touched  by  an  obhque  ray, 
the  line  of  a  torrent  flashes.  Behind  spreads 
out  the  earth  of  afl  the  earth,  Asia  with 
Europe;  hke  the  central  height  of  an  altar, 
an  immense  plain;  and  then,  far  beyond 
that,  like  a  man  flat  on  his  face  on  the  water, 
France;  and,  in  the  thickest  of  France, 
joyous  and  fertile  Champagne.  Only  the 
top  of  the  golden  targe  can  be  seen  now, 
and  at  the  moment  it  disappears  the  even- 
ing star  sends  across  the  sky  a  dark  and 
vertical  ray.  It  is  the  time  when  the  sea 
which  follows  it,  lifting  itself  from  its  bed 
with  a  profound  cry,  hurls  its  shoulder 
against  the  earth. 

Now  I  must  go.  So  high  that  I  must  lift 
my  chin  to  see  it,  the  summit  of  Kuchang, 
detached  by  a  cloud,  is  hung  like  an  island 
in  the  exquisite  spaces;  and,  thinking  of 
nothing  else,  I  walk  as  though  my  head 
were  detached  from  my  body,  —  like  a  man 
whom  the  acidity  of  too  strong  a  perfume 
has  satiated. 

[4-] 


THE   RELIGION   OF   LETTERS 

LET  others  discover  in  the  range  of 
Chinese  characters  either  the  head  of 
a  sheep,  the  arms  and  legs  of  a  man,  or  the 
sun  setting  behind  a  tree.  For  my  part  I 
seek  a  more  difficult  clue. 

All  writing  commences  with  a  symbol 
or  line  which,  considered  as  a  whole,  is  a 
pure  characterization  of  the  individual. 
Either  the  line  is  horizontal,  like  all  things 
which,  in  simply  conforming  to  the  laws 
of  their  being,  find  sufficient  reason  for 
existence;  or  it  is  vertical,  like  the  tree  and 
the  man,  indicating  acts  and  laying  down 
affirmations;  or,  if  oblique,  it  marks  move- 
ment and  the  senses. 

The  Roman  letter  has  had  the  vertical 
line  for  its  principle;  the  Chinese  character 
seems  to  have  the  horizontal  as  its  essential 
trait.  The  letter  with  an  imperious  down- 
stroke  affirms  that  a  thing  is  so;  the  char- 
acter is  the  very  thing  that  it  signifies. 

One  sj^mbol  or  another  is  equally  a  sign. 

Let    us    take    figures    for    example.     They 

are   all   equally   abstract   images,   but  the 

letter  is  essentially  analytic.     Each  word 

[42] 


THE     RELIGION     OF     LETTERS 

is  an  enunciation  of  successive  affirmations 
that  the  eye  and  the  voice  spell  out.  Unit 
is  added  to  unit  on  the  same  line,  and  the 
Protean  syllable  changes  and  is  modified 
in  a  continual  variation.  But  the  Chinese 
sign  develops  the  figure,  and,  applying  it 
to  a  series  of  beings,  it  difi^erentiates  their 
characters  indefinitely.  A  word  exists  by 
a  succession  of  letters,  a  character  by  the 
relation  of  its  strokes.  May  we  not  imagine 
that  in  these  the  horizontal  fine  indicates, 
for  example,  the  species;  the  vertical, 
the  individual;  the  obfique,  diverse  of 
movement,  that  group  of  traits  and  energies 
which  gives  meaning  to  the  whole;  the 
period,  distinct  on  the  white  page,  signifying 
something  that  can  only  be  impfied?  One 
can  therefore  see  in  the  Chinese  character 
a  completely  developed  being,  a  written 
person,  having,  fike  a  person  who  fives, 
his  nature  and  his  moods,  his  own  acts  and 
his  inner  individuafity,  his  structure  and 
physiognomy. 

This  explains  the  piety  with  which  the 
Chinese  regard  writing.  They  burn  with 
respect  the  humblest  paper  marked  with  a 
vestige  of  this  mystery.  The  sign  is  a 
being;  and,  from  the  fact  that  it  is  common 
to  afi,  it  becomes  sacred.  With  them  the 
representation  of  ideas  is  almost  an  idol. 

[43] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


Such  is  the  foundation  of  that  scriptural 
religion  which  is  peculiar  to  China.  Yester- 
day I  visited  a  Confucian  temple. 

It  was  in  a  solitary  quarter  where  every- 
thing spoke  of  desertion  and  decay.  In 
the  silence  and  burning  heat  of  the  sun  at 
three  o'clock,  we  followed  the  sinuous  street. 
Our  entrance  is  not  to  be  by  the  great  door 
where  the  proud  rot  in  their  enclosure, 
where  that  high  column  marked  with  an 
official  inscription  in  two  languages  guards 
the  worn  sill.  A  woman,  short  and  round- 
backed  as  a  pig,  opens  a  side  passage  for 
us;  and,  with  echoing  footfalls,  we  penetrate 
into  the  deserted  court. 

By  the  proportions  of  the  court  and  of 
the  peristyles  which  frame  it;  by  the 
spacious  intercolumniations  and  the  hori- 
zontal lines  of  the  facade;  by  the  repetition 
of  the  two  enormous  roofs,  which  lift  their 
massive  black  curves  with  a  single  sweep; 
by  the  symmetrical  disposition  of  the  two 
little  pavihons  which  are  before  it  and  which 
lighten  the  severity  of  the  whole  with  the 
agreeable  grotesques  of  their  octagonal 
roofs;  the  building  (to  apply  the  essential 
laws  of  architecture)  is  given  a  learned 
aspect,  a  classic  beauty  in  short,  due  to  an 
exquisite  observation  of  rule. 

The  temple  is  composed  of  two  parts. 

[44] 


THE     RELIGION     OF     LETTERS 

I  suppose  that  the  passages  with  their  rows 
of  tablets  on  the  walls,  each  one  preceded 
by  a  long,  narrow  altar  of  stone,  offer  to  a 
hasty  worship  the  primary  series  of  precepts. 
Lifting  our  feet  to  avoid  the  sill  which  it  is 
forbidden  to  tread  upon,  we  penetrate  into 
the  shade  of  the  sanctuary. 

The  vast  high  hall  has  the  air  of  holding 
an  occult  presence.  It  is  utterly  empty. 
Here  silence  sits  veiled  in  obscurity.  Here 
are  no  ornaments,  no  statues.  On  each 
side  of  the  hall  we  distinguish,  between  their 
curtains,  great  inscriptions;  and,  before 
them,  altars;  but  in  the  middle  of  the  temple, 
behind  five  monumental  pieces  of  stone, 
three  vases  and  two  candlesticks;  under  an 
edifice  of  gold,  a  baldachin  or  a  tabernacle 
which  frames  it  on  all  sides;  four  characters 
are  inscribed  upon  a  vertical  column. 

Here  writing  possesses  this  mystery: 
it  speaks.  No  moment  marks  its  duration, 
no  position.  It  is  the  commencement  of 
an  ageless  sign.  No  mouth  offers  it.  It 
exists;  and  the  worshiper,  face  to  face 
with  it,  ponders  the  written  name.  Sol- 
emnly enunciated  in  the  gloom  of  the 
shadowy  gold  of  the  baldachin,  the  sign, 
between  the  two  columns  which  are  cov- 
ered with  the  mystic  windings  of  the  dragon, 
symbolizes  its  own  silence.     The  immense 

[45] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


red  hall  seems  to  be  the  very  color  of  obscu- 
rity, the  pillars  are  hidden  under  a  scarlet 
lacquer.  Alone  in  the  middle  of  the  temple, 
before  the  sacred  word,  two  columns  of 
white  granite  seem  its  witness;  the  very 
soul,  religious  and  abstract,  of  the  place. 


[46] 


THE  BANYAN 

THE  banyan  toils. 
This  giant  does  not,  like  his  brother 
in  India,  endeavor  to  seize  upon  the  earth 
again  with  his  hands;  but,  raising  himself 
with  one  turn  of  the  shoulder,  he  hfts  his 
roots  to  heaven  like  accumulated  chains. 
Hardly  has  the  trunk  lifted  itself  several 
feet  above  the  soil  than  it  stretches  its 
limbs  laboriously,  each  like  an  arm  which 
tugs  away  at  a  bundle  of  cords  it  has 
grasped.  With  a  slow  lengthening  out, 
the  hauling  monster  strains  himself  and 
labors  in  all  the  attitudes  of  effort  so  hard 
that  the  rude  bark  sphts  and  the  muscles 
stand  out  from  the  skin.  There  is  the 
straight  thrust,  the  flexing  and  the  support, 
the  twist  of  loin  and  shoulder,  the  slacken- 
ing of  haunches,  the  play  of  fulcrum  and 
jack,  the  straightening  up  or  reaching  down 
of  arms  which  seem  to  put  the  body  out 
of  joint.  It  is  a  knot  of  pythons,  it  is  a 
hydra  stubbornly  tearing  itself  away  from 
the  tenacious  earth.  You  might  say  that 
the  banyan  Hfts  a  burden  from  the  depths 
and  upholds  it  with  its  straining  limbs. 

Honored  by  the  humble  settlement,  at  the 
gate  of  the  village  he  is  a  patriarch  clothed 

[47] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 

in  shadowy  foliage.  At  his  feet  is  installed  a 
furnace  for  offerings;  and,  in  his  very  heart, 
under  the  spreading  of  his  branches,  is  an 
altar  with  a  stone  doll.  Witness  of  all  that 
passes,  possessor  of  the  earth  encompassed 
by  multitudinous  roots,  here  the  ancient 
lives;  and,  whether  alone  with  the  children 
or  at  the  hour  when  all  the  village  reas- 
sembles under  the  twisted  projections  of 
his  boughs  (as  the  rosy  rays  of  the  moon, 
passing  across  the  openings  of  his  canopy, 
illumine  the  cabal  with  an  outline  of  gold), 
the  colossal  tree,  wherever  his  shadow 
turns,  perseveres  in  imperceptible  effort, 
adding  the  passing  moment  to  his  accumu- 
lated centuries. 

Somewhere  in  mythology  are  honored 
the  heroes  who  have  distributed  water  to 
a  country,  and,  striking  a  great  rock,  have 
delivered  the  obstructed  mouth  of  a  foun- 
tain. I  see  standing  in  the  banyan  a 
Hercules  of  the  vegetable  world,  a  monu- 
ment of  majestic  labor.  Would  it  not  seem 
to  be  by  his  labors  (this  monster  in  chains, 
who  vanquishes  the  avaricious  resistance 
of  the  earth)  that  the  springs  gush  forth 
and  overflow,  that  grass  grows  afar  off, 
and  water  is  held  at  its  level  in  the 
rice-fields. 

He  toils. 

[48] 


TOWARD  THE  MOUNTAIN 

COMING  out  barefoot  on  the  verandah, 
I  look  toward  the  left.  On  the  brow 
of  the  mountain,  among  the  torn  clouds, 
a  touch  of  phosphorus  indicates  the  dawn. 
A  movement  of  lamps  in  the  house,  a 
breakfast  while  still  sleepy  and  benumbed; 
and  then,  with  packages  stowed  away,  we 
start.  By  the  rugged  coast  we  drop  down 
to  the  neighboring  city. 

It  is  the  vague  hour  when  cities  awaken. 
Already  the  open-air  cooks  blow  fires  under 
their  stoves.  Already  in  the  depths  of 
certain  booths  a  vacillating  hght  illumines 
nude  bodies.  In  spite  of  spiked  boards 
that  have  been  placed  flat  against  openings 
or  hung  over  cornices,  —  huddled  in  corners 
in  every  free  space,  men  stretch  and  sleep. 
Half  awake,  one  scratches  his  side  and  stares 
at  us  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eyes  with  an 
air  of  dehcious  comfort.  Another  sleeps  so 
heavily  that  you  would  think  he  was  stuck 
to  the  stones.  An  old  man,  who  has  the 
appearance  of  being  clothed  in  the  scum 
that  forms  on  stagnant  waters,  combs  his 
mangy    skull    with    his    two    hands.     And 

[49] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


finally,  I  must  not  forget  that  beggar  with 
the  head  of  a  cannibal  —  his  wildly  disheveled 
hair  bristling  like  a  black  bush  —  who,  with 
one  gaunt  knee  extended,  lies  flat  under  the 
first  rays  of  morning. 

Nothing  could  be  stranger  than  a  town 
at  the  hour  when  it  sleeps.  These  streets 
seem  like  avenues  in  a  necropohs.  These 
houses  exude  sleep.  And  all  of  them, 
because  of  their  closed  doors,  seem  to  me 
solemn  and  monumental.  Every  one,  in 
the  sleep  wherein  he  is  buried,  suffers  that 
singular  change  which  comes  over  the  faces 
of  the  dead.  Like  a  httle  child  with  un- 
focused eyes,  who  frets  and  kneads  the 
breast  of  his  nurse  with  a  feeble  hand,  the 
man  who  sleeps,  with  a  great  sigh,  presses 
his  face  to  the  deep  earth.  Everything  is 
silent  because  it  is  the  hour  when  the  earth 
gives  to  drink,  and  no  one  of  her  children 
turns  in  vain  to  her  hberal  breast.  The 
poor  and  the  rich,  the  young  and  the  old, 
the  just  and  the  unjust,  the  judge  with  the 
prisoner,  and  man  hke  the  animals,  all  of 
them  drink  together  like  foster-brothers! 
All  is  mystery  because  this  is  the  hour  when 
Man  communicates  with  his  mother.  The 
sleeper  sleeps  and  cannot  be  awakened. 
He  holds  the  breast  and  will  not  let  it  go. 
This  draught  still  flows  for  him. 

[50] 


TOWARD     THE     MOUNTAIN 

The  street  exudes  odors  of  filth  and  hair. 

Now  the  houses  become  fewer.  We  pass 
groups  of  banyans;  and,  in  the  pond  that 
they  shade,  a  great  buffalo,  of  which  we  can 
only  see  the  back  and  the  moon-curved 
horns,  stares  at  us  with  eyes  of  heavy  stupor. 
We  pass  lines  of  women  going  to  the  fields. 
When  one  laughs  her  mirth  spreads  and 
grows  feebler  on  the  four  faces  that  follow, 
and  is  effaced  on  the  fifth.  At  the  hour 
when  the  first  ray  of  the  sun  traverses  the 
virginal  air,  we  gain  the  vast  and  empty 
plain;  and,  leaving  behind  us  the  tortuous 
road,  we  take  our  way  toward  the  moun- 
tain across  the  fields  of  rice,  tobacco,  beans, 
pumpkins,  cucumbers,  and  sugar-cane. 


[51] 


THE  GREAT  SEA 

CLIMBING  one  day,  I  reach  the 
plateau,  and,  in  its  basin  of  mountains 
where  black  islands  emerge,  I  view  afar 
off  the  great  sea.  Certainly,  by  a  perilous 
path,  it  would  be  possible  for  me  to  gain 
the  shore;  but  whether  I  follow  its  outline 
or  whether  I  choose  to  take  a  boat,  the  sur- 
face remains  impenetrable  to  my  gaze. 
Well,  then,  I  shall  play  on  the  flute,  I  shall 
beat  the  tom-tom;  and  the  boat-woman, 
standing  on  one  leg  Hke  a  stork  while  with 
the  other  knee  she  supports  her  nursing 
baby  as  she  conducts  her  sampan  across 
the  flat  waters,  wiH  believe  that  the  gods 
behind  the  drawn  curtains  of  the  clouds 
are  enjoying  themselves  in  the  courts  of 
their  temple. 

Or,  unlacing  my  shoe,  I  shaH  throw  it 
across  the  lake.  Where  it  fafls  the  passer- 
by win  prostrate  himself;  and,  having 
picked  it  up  with  superstitious  awe,  he  will 
honor  it  with  four  sticks  of  incense.  Or, 
curving  my  hands  about  my  mouth,  I 
shaH  cry  out  names.     The  words  will  die 

[521 


THE     GREAT     SEA 


first,  then  the  sound;  and  the  tone  alone, 
reaching  the  ears  of  some  one,  will  make  him 
turn  from  side  to  side,  hke  a  man  who 
hears  himself  called  in  a  dream  and  makes 
an  effort  to  break  his  bonds 


[53] 


THE   TEMPLE   OF   CONSCIOUSNESS 

I  HAVE  devoted  more  than  one  day  simply 
to  the  discovery  of  it,  ensconced  upon 
its  steep  clifF  of  black  rock,  and  it  is  not  till 
late  afternoon  that  I  know  myself  to  be 
upon  the  right  path.  From  the  giddy 
height  where  I  climb,  the  wide  rice-fields 
seem  designed  like  a  chart.  The  brink 
along  which  I  move  is  so  narrow  that  when- 
ever I  lift  my  right  foot  it  is  poised  over 
the  yellow  expanse  of  the  sown  village  fields 
spread  out  like  a  carpet  below. 

Silence.  By  an  ancient  staircase  covered 
with  a  hoary  lichen  I  descend  in  the  pun- 
gent shade  of  the  bay-trees,  and,  as  the 
footpath  at  this  turning  is  suddenly  barred 
by  a  wall,  I  arrive  at  a  closed  door.  I 
listen.  No  word,  no  voice,  no  drum!  In 
vain  I  shake  the  wooden  handle  of  the  door, 
and  beat  upon  it  rudely  with  both  hands. 

Not  even  a  bird  cries  as  I  scale  the  wall. 

This  place  is  inhabited  after  all;  and 
while,  sitting  upon  the  balustrade  where 
domestic  linen  is  drying,  I  sink  my  teeth 
and  fingers  into  the  thick  rind  of  a  haddock 
stolen   from   the   offerings,    the   old   monk 

[54] 


THE     TEMPLE     OF     CONSCIOUSNESS 

inside  prepares  me  a  cup  of  tea.  Neither 
the  inscription  above  the  door  nor  the  di- 
lapidated idols  who  are  honored  with  a 
thin  spire  of  incense  in  the  depths  of  this 
humble  cave  seem  to  me  to  constitute  the 
religion  of  the  place,  any  more  than  the  acid 
fruit  that  I  munch;  but  here  —  on  this  low 
platform,  which  incloses  a  piece  of  mushn, 
—  this  circular  straw  mat  where  the  bhiku 
will  come  soon  to  squat  for  meditation  or 
sleep  —  is  everything. 

Let  me  compare  this  vast  countryside, 
which  opens  out  before  me  as  far  as  the 
double  wall  of  mountains  and  clouds,  to  a 
flower  of  which  this  seat  is  the  mystic  heart. 
Is  it  not  the  geometric  center  where  the 
scene,  united  into  an  harmonious  whole, 
virtually  takes  on  existence  and  a  con- 
sciousness of  itself;  and  where,  to  the  studi- 
ous contemplation  of  the  occupant,  all  lines 
converge? 

The  sun  sets.  I  clamber  up  the  steps  of 
velvet  whiteness  where  open  pine-cones  are 
strewn  like  roses. 


[55] 


OCTOBER 

IN  vain  I  see  the  trees  still  green. 
Whether  a  funereal  haze  enshroud  it, 
or  whether  an  enduring  serenity  of  sky 
efface  it,  the  year  is  not  one  day  less  near 
the  fatal  solstice.  The  sun  does  not  de- 
ceive me,  nor  the  widespread  opulence  of 
the  country.  There  is  a  calm  inexpressibly 
placid,  a  repose  from  which  there  is  no 
awakening.  The  cricket  has  scarcely  com- 
menced his  cry  when  he  stills  it,  for  fear 
of  being  an  annoyance  in  the  midst  of 
plenty,  since  it  is  only  dearth  that  gives 
him  the  right  to  speak.  And  it  seems  as 
if  one  were  cautioned  only  with  bare  feet 
to  penetrate  into  the  fastnesses  of  these 
golden  fields.  No!  The  sky  behind  me 
does  not  radiate  the  same  hght  over  the  wide 
harvest;  and,  as  the  road  leads  me  by  the 
stacks,  whether  I  turn  the  corner  of  a  pond 
here  or  whether  I  discover  a  village  by  going 
farther  from  the  sun,  I  turn  my  face  toward 
that  broad  pale  moon  which  I  have  seen  all 
day. 

It  was  at  the  moment  of  emerging  from 
the  dark  oHves,  when   I  saw  the  radiant 

[56] 


OCTOBER 

plain  open  out  before  me  straight  to  the 
barriers  of  the  mountain,  that  an  interpre- 
tation was  communicated  to  me.  Oh  last 
fruits  of  a  condemned  season!  In  the 
achievement  of  the  day  is  the  supreme 
maturity  of  the  irretrievable  year.  It  is 
finished. 

The  impatient  hands  of  winter  do  not 
strip  the  earth  barbarously.  No  winds 
tear  at  her;  no  frost  sphnters,  no  waters 
drown  her.  But  more  tenderly  than  May 
—  or  when  insatiable  June  chngs  to  the 
source  of  hfe,  possessing  the  noon  hour  — 
the  sky  smiles  at  the  earth  with  ineffable 
love.  Like  a  heart  which  yields  to  continual 
importuning,  is  this  consent;  the  grain  sepa- 
rates from  the  ear,  the  fruit  falls  from  the 
tree,  the  earth  Httle  by  little  abandons  her- 
self to  the  invincible  solicitor  of  all.  Death 
loosens  a  hand  too  full.  The  word  that  she 
hears  now  is  holier  than  that  of  her  wedding 
day,  deeper,  more  tender  and  more  glorious. 
It  is  finished. 

The  bird  sleeps,  the  tree  falls  asleep  in 
the  shade  which  encompasses  it,  the  sun  at 
the  level  of  the  earth  covers  it  with  a  long 
ray.  The  day  is  done,  the  year  is  consum- 
mated. To  the  celestial  interrogation  is 
returned  this  amorous  response.  It  is 
finished. 

[57] 


NOVEMBER 

THE  sun  sets  on  a  day  of  peace  and  labor, 
yet  men,  women,  and  children,  their 
disheveled  hair  full  of  dust  and  wisps  of 
straw,  their  faces  and  legs  stained  with 
earth,  work  on.  Here  they  cut  rice,  here 
they  gather  up  the  sheaves;  and,  as  on 
wall-paper  the  same  scene  is  repeated  in- 
definitely, so  on  every  side  we  see  great 
wooden  vats  with  men  who,  face  to  face, 
beat  ears  of  corn  against  the  sides;  and  al- 
ready the  plow  commences  to  turn  the  clay 
again.  All  about  is  the  odor  of  grain,  the 
perfume  of  the  harvest.  At  the  end  of 
the  plain  where  the  men  are  working  is  a 
wide  river;  and  there,  in  the  middle  of 
the  fields,  an  arch  of  triumph  colored  by  the 
setting  of  the  crimson  sun  completes  the 
peaceable  picture.  A  man  who  passes  near 
me  holds  in  his  hand  a  flame-colored  chicken, 
another  carries  at  the  ends  of  his  bamboo 
a  big  tin  teapot,  hanging  in  front  of  him,  — 
and  behind  him  a  package  made  of  some 
green  rehshes,  a  bit  of  meat,  a  bundle  of 
those  slips  of  silver  paper  that  are  burned 
for  the  dead,  and  a  fish  hung  beneath  by  a 

[58] 


NOVEMBER 


Straw.  His  blue  blouse,  his  violet  trousers, 
gleam  against  the  lacquered  gold  of  the 
stubble. 

—  Let  no  one  mock  my  idle  hands !  The 
hurricane  itself,  and  the  weight  of  the  sea 
that  it  hurls,  cannot  shake  the  heavy  stone; 
but  wood  will  float  on  the  water,  leaves 
yield  to  the  air;  I,  still  more  trifling,  fix 
my  feet  nowhere  upon  the  earth,  and  the 
departing  hght  draws  me  with  it.  By  the 
dark  roads  of  the  viflages,  among  pines  and 
tombs,  and  along  the  far-stretched  fields, 
I  am  the  setting  sun.  Neither  the  happy 
plain  nor  the  harmony  of  these  mountains, 
nor  the  alluring  color  of  the  verdure  on  the 
ruddy  harvest,  can  satisfy  the  eye  which 
demands  hght  itself.  Below  in  that  square 
moat,  enclosed  by  the  mountain  with  a  rude 
wafl,  the  air  and  the  water  burn  with  a 
mysterious  fire,  I  see  a  gold  so  beautiful 
that  all  nature  seems  to  me  a  dead  mass; 
in  comparison  with  that  Hght  the  clarity 
that  she  can  diff'use  is  darkest  night.  Desir- 
able ehxir,  by  what  mystic  route  will  I  be 
led  to  participate  in  thy  avaricious  waters? 

This  evening  the  sun  leaves  me  near  a 
great  orange  tree  that  the  family  which  it 
nourishes  have  begun  to  strip.  A  ladder 
is  leaning  against  the  tree.     I  hear  speech 

[59] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


in  the  foliage.  In  the  hngering  neutral 
light  of  the  hour  I  see  the  golden  fruit 
gleam  through  the  somber  leaves.  Coming 
nearer  I  see  each  twig  etched  clearly  against 
the  green  of  the  evening.  I  regard  the  httle 
red  oranges,  I  breathe  their  bitter,  strong 
aroma.  Oh  marvelous  harvest,  promised 
to  One  alone!  Fruit  shown  to  that 
immortal  part  of  us  which  triumphs! 

Before  I  reach  the  pines  night  falls  and 
the  cold  moon  Hghts  me.  This  seems  to 
me  to  be  the  difference:  that  the  sun  looks 
at  us,  but  we  look  at  the  moon.  Her  face 
is  tur/ned  away,  and  hke  a  fire  which  hghts 
up  the  bottom  of  the  sea  she  makes  every 
shadow  become  visible.  ...  In  the  heart 
of  this  ancient  tomb,  in  the  thick  grass  of 
this  ruined  temple,  under  the  form  of  fair 
ladies  or  wise  old  men,  possibly  I  shall 
meet  a  company  of  foxes!  They  will  offer 
me  verses  and  riddles,  they  will  make  me 
drink  their  wine,  and  my  w^ay  will  be  for- 
gotten. These  civil  hosts  wish  to  give  me 
entertainment.  They  mount  standing,  one 
on  top  of  another  —  and  then,  as  the  spell 
breaks,  I  find  myself  in  the  straight  white 
footpath  that  leads  me  toward  my  home. 
But  already  in  the  depths  of  the  valley  I 
see  a  human  fire  burning. 


[60] 


PAINTING 

LET  some  one  fasten  this  piece  of  silk 
by  the  four  corners  for  me,  and  I  shall 
not  put  the  sky  upon  it.  The  sea  and  its 
shores,  the  forest  and  the  mountains,  do 
not  tempt  my  art.  But  from  the  top  to 
the  bottom  and  from  one  side  to  the  other, 
as  between  new  horizons,  with  an  artless 
hand  I  shall  paint  the  Earth.  The  limits 
of  communities,  the  divisions  of  fields, 
will  be  exactly  outhned,  —  those  that  are 
already  plowed,  those  where  the  battalions 
of  sheaves  still  stand.  I  shall  not  fail  to 
count  each  tree.  The  smallest  house  will 
be  represented  with  an  ingenuous  industry. 
Looking  closely,  you  may  distinguish  the 
people;  he  who  crosses  an  arched  bridge 
of  stone,  parasol  in  hand;  he  who  washes 
buckets  at  a  pond;  the  litter  travehng  on 
the  shoulders  of  two  porters,  and  the  pa- 
tient laborer  who  plows  a  new  furrow  the 
length  of  the  old.  A  long  road  bordered 
with  a  double  row  of  skiffs  crosses  the  pic- 
ture from  one  corner  to  the  other,  and  in 
one  of  the  circular  moats  can  be  seen,  in 
a  scrap  of  azure  for  water,  three  quarters  of 
a  sKghtly  yellow  moon. 
[6i] 


THE  SOLITARY 

HAVE  I  ever  lived  elsewhere  than  in 
this  circular  gorge  hollowed  in  the 
heart  of  the  rock?  Doubtless  at  three 
o'clock  a  raven  will  not  fail  to  bring  me  the 
bread  I  need,  unless  the  perpetual  sound 
of  the  falling  water  can  keep  me  fat!  A 
hundred  feet  above  me,  as  if  it  gushed  with 
violence  out  of  the  radiant  heaven  itself, 
between  the  bamboos  that  obstruct  it, 
leaping  the  sudden  verge,  the  torrent  is 
engulfed  and  plunges  in  a  vertical  column, 
partly  dark  and  partly  himinous,  —  striking 
the  floor  of  the  cavern  with  re-echoing 
thunders. 

No  human  eye  could  discover  where  I 
am.  In  shadows  that  only  the  noonday 
dissipates,  the  strand  of  this  httle  lake, 
shaking  with  the  unceasing  phmge  of  the 
cascade,  is  my  habitation.  Above,  where 
an  inexhaustible  torrent  falls  from  the  gorge, 
only  this  handful  of  sparkhng  milk-white 
water  reaches  me  directly  from  the  generous 
sky.  The  stream  escapes  by  this  turning; 
and  sometimes,  mingled  with  the  cries  of 

[62] 


THE     SOLITARY 


the  birds  in  the  forest  and  with  this  soft 
gushing  near  me,  I  hear  the  voluble  noise 
of  falling  waters  behind  me  descending 
toward  the  earth. 


[63] 


DECEMBER 

SWEEPING  the  country  and  the  leafy 
valley,  thy  hand,  reaching  these  purple 
and  tan-colored  lands  that  thine  eyes  dis- 
cover below  thee,  is  arrested  by  them  on 
this  rich  brocade.  All  is  quiet  and  muffled; 
no  green  shocks,  nothing  new  and  young 
jars  on  the  composure  of  the  scene,  on  the 
harmony  of  these  full  and  hollow  tones.  A 
somber  cloud  occupies  the  whole  sky, 
heaping  with  fog  the  cleft  of  the  mountain. 
One  might  say  that  it  was  dovetailed  into 
the  horizon.  With  thy  hand,  December, 
caress  these  large  adornments,  tufts  of 
black  pine  like  brooches  against  the  hya- 
cinth of  the  plain;  verify  with  thy  fingers 
these  details  sunk  in  the  enmeshing  fog  of 
this  winter  day:  a  row  of  trees,  a  village. 
Truly  the  hour  is  arrested.  Like  an  empty 
theater,  abandoned  to  melancholy,  the 
sealed-up  countryside  seems  to  listen  for  a 
voice  so  shrill  that  I  cannot  hear  it. 

These  afternoons  in  December  are  sweet. 
Nothing  speaks  as  yet  of  the  tormenting 
future,  and  the  past  is  not  yet  so  dead  that 
it  has  no  survivals.     Of  all  the  grass  and  of 

[64] 


DECEMBER 


such  a  great  harvest  nothing  remains  but 
strewn  straw  and  dry  brush.  Cold  water 
softens  the  ploughed  earth.  All  is  finished. 
This  is  the  pause,  the  suspension,  between 
one  year  and  the  next.  Thought,  dehvered 
from  her  labor,  gives  herself  up  to  recol- 
lection with  a  sweet  taciturnity,  and,  med- 
itating on  new  enterprises,  hke  the  earth 
she  tastes  her  sabbath. 


[6s] 


TEMPEST 

IN  the  morning,  leaving  a  shore  the  color 
of  roses  and  of  honey,  our  ship  entered 
upon  the  high  sea  through  streamers  of 
low  and  sluggish  fog.  When,  having  wak- 
ened from  this  somber  dream,  I  seek  the 
sun,  I  see  that  it  is  setting  behind  us;  but 
before  us,  bounding  the  black,  dead  spaces 
of  the  sea,  one  long  mountain,  Hke  an  em- 
bankment of  snow,  bars  the  north  from  one 
end  of  the  sky  to  the  other.  This  Alp  lacks 
nothing,  neither  coldness  nor  rigidity. 
Alone  in  the  midst  of  the  sohtude,  hke  a 
combatant  who  advances  in  an  enormous 
arena,  our  ship  moves  toward  the  white 
obstacle  which  rises  cleaving  the  melancholy 
waters;  and  all  at  once  a  cloud  hides  the 
sky  from  us  like  the  hood  of  a  wagon  drawn 
over  it.  In  the  cleft  of  dayhght  that  it 
leaves  on  the  horizon  behind  us,  I  look 
for  the  reappearance  of  the  sun.  The 
islands  shine  hke  a  hghted  lamp,  and  three 
junks  stand  out  on  the  crest  of  the  sea. 

We  are  rushing  now  across  a  stretch  of 
water   that   is   roughened   by   the   clouds. 
The  surface  heaves;  and,  as  the  motion  of 
[66] 


TEMPEST 

the  abyss  affects  our  deck,  the  prow  lifts  r- 
and  plunges,  solemnly  as  if  saluting,  or  like  '' 
a  cock  who  measures  his  adversary.  It  is 
night.  From  the  north  blows  a  harsh 
wind  full  of  horror.  On  one  side  a  ruddy 
moon,  moving  among  disordered  clouds, 
strikes  through  them  with  a  lens-shaped 
edge;  on  the  other  the  beacon-lamp  of 
rippled  red  glass  is  hoisted  to  our  foresail. 
Now  all  is  calm  again.  The  sheaf  of  water 
gushing  always  evenly  before  us,  and  shot 
with  a  mysterious  fire,  streams  away  from 
our  prow  like  a  body  made  of  tears. 


[67 1 


THE  PIG 

I  SHALL  paint  here  the  pig's  portrait. 
He  is  a  soKd  beast,  made  all  in  one  piece, 
without  joints  and  without  a  neck;  and  he 
sinks  in  front  Hke  a  sack,  Jolting  along  on 
four  squat  hams.  He  is  a  trumpet  on  the 
march,  ever  seeking;  and  to  every  odor  that 
he  scents  he  applies  his  pump-hke  body. 
He  sucks  it  in.  When  he  has  found  the 
necessary  hole,  he  wallows  enormously. 
This  is  not  the  wrigghng  of  a  duck  who 
enters  the  water.  It  is  not  the  sociable  hap- 
piness of  the  dog.  It  is  a  deep,  sohtary, 
conscientious,  integral  enjoyment.  He 
sniffs,  he  sips,  he  tastes,  and  you  cannot 
say  whether  he  eats  or  drinks.  Perfectly 
round,  with  a  httle  quiver,  he  advances 
and  buries  himself  in  the  unctuous  center 
of  the  fresh  filth.  He  grunts,  he  sports  in 
the  recesses  of  his  tripery.  He  winks  an 
eye.  Consummate  amateur,  although  his 
ever-active  smeUing  apparatus  lets  nothing 
escape,  his  tastes  do  not  run  to  the  transient 
perfumes  of  flowers  or  of  frivolous  fruits. 
In  everything  he  searches  for  nourishment. 
He  loves  it  rich  and  strong  and  ripe,  and  his 
[68] 


THE     PIG 

instinct  attaches  him  to  these  two  funda- 
mental things,  earth  and  ordure. 

Glutton,  wanton,  though  I  present  you 
with  this  model,  admit  this  —  that  some- 
thing is  lacking  to  your  satisfaction.  The 
body  is  not  sufficient  to  itself;  but  the  doc- 
trine that  you  teach  us  is  not  in  vain. 
**Do  not  apply  the  eye  alone  to  truth,  but 
all  that  is  thyself,  without  reserve."  Hap- 
piness is  our  duty  and  our  inheritance,  a 
certain  perfect  possession  is  intended. 

But  like  the  sow  which  furnished  the 
oracles  to  i^neas,  the  meeting  with  one 
always  seems  to  me  an  augury,  a  social 
symbol.  Her  flank  is  more  vague  than 
hifls  seen  through  the  rain,  and  when  she 
litters,  giving  drink  to  a  battahon  of  young 
boars  who  march  between  her  legs,  she 
seems  to  me  the  very  image  of  those  moun- 
tains which  suckle  the  clusters  of  villages 
attached  to  their  torrents,  no  less  massive 
and  no  less  misshapen. 

I  must  not  omit  to  say  that  the  blood  of 
the  pig  serves  to  fix  gold. 


[69] 


THE  SOURCE 

LET  other  rivers  carry  toward  the  sea 
oak  branches  and  the  red  infusion  of 
rusty  earth,  roses  and  the  bark  of  sycamores, 
strewn  straw  or  slabs  of  ice;  let  the  Seine 
in  the  damp  mornings  of  December,  when 
half-past  eight  sounds  from  the  steeples  of 
the  city,  unmoor  under  the  rigid  derricks 
barges  of  manure  and  lighters  full  of  casks; 
let  the  River  Haha,  at  the  smoking  crest 
of  its  rapids,  erect  all  at  once,  like  the  rude 
semblance  of  a  pike,  the  trunk  of  a  hundred- 
foot  pine  tree;  and  let  the  Equatorial  rivers 
carry  in  their  turbid  flow  a  confused  world 
of  trees  and  plants;  yet,  flat  on  my  face, 
held  fast  against  the  current,  the  width  of 
this  one  river  is  not  equal  to  my  arms,  nor 
its  depth  sufficient  to  engulf  me. 

The  promises  of  the  Occident  are  not 
Hes!  Learn  this:  this  gold  does  not  vainly 
appeal  to  our  blindness,  it  is  not  devoid 
of  dehghts.  I  have  found  that  it  is  insuf- 
ficient to  see,  inexpedient  to  remain 
standing;  upon  analysis  my  enjoyment  is 
in  that  of  which  I  can  take  possession;  for, 

I  70] 


THE     SOURCE 


descending  the  steep  bank  with  the  feet  of 
astonishment,  I  have  discovered  the  source. 
The  riches  of  the  West  are  not  forbidden 
me.  Over  the  curve  of  the  earth,  straight 
toward  me,  they  are  roHing. 

Not  the  silk  molded  by  a  hand  or  a  bare 
foot,  not  the  deep  wool  of  the  carpet  used 
for  the  consecration  of  a  king,  can  be  com- 
pared to  the  resistance  of  this  liquid  depth 
where  my  own  weight  supports  me. 
Neither  the  name  of  milk  nor  the  color 
of  the  rose  can  be  compared  to  this  marvel 
whose  descent  I  receive  upon  me.  Truly 
I  drink,  truly  I  am  plunged  in  wine!  Let 
the  ports  open  to  receive  the  cargoes  of 
wood  and  grain  that  come  to  them  from 
the  high  countries;  let  the  fishers  tend  their 
lines  to  catch  wreckage  and  fish;  let  the 
searchers  for  gold  filter  the  water  and  sift 
the  sand;  the  river  does  not  carry  less  riches 
to  me.  Do  not  say  that  I  see,  because  the 
eye  does  not  suffice  for  this,  which  demands 
a  more  subtle  sense.  To  enjoy  is  to  under- 
stand, and  to  understand  is  to  evaluate. 

At  the  hour  when  the  holy  fight  evokes 
to  complete  response  the  shadow  that  she 
dissipates,  the  surface  of  these  waters 
opens  a  flowerless  garden  to  my  motionless 
navigation.  Between  these  deep  violet  rip- 
ples the  water  is  painted  fike  the  reflec- 

[71] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


tion  of  tapers,  like  amber,  like  palest  green, 
like  the  color  of  gold.  But  silence!  What 
I  have  discovered  is  mine,  and  now,  as  the 
water  darkens,  I  will  possess  the  night  alone 
with  all  its  visible  and  invisible  stars. 


[72] 


DOORS 

EVERY  solid  door  opens  upon  less  than 
is  shut  out  by  its  particular  panels. 
Many,  through  progress  in  the  occult, 
have  gained  Yamen,  the  soKtary  state,  and 
the  court  which  a  great  silence  fills;  but 
if  any  one,  after  attaining  this  degree,  at 
the  moment  when  his  hand  is  poised  for  a 
blow  on  the  drum  offered  to  visitors,  hears 
the  sound  of  his  name  penetrating  the 
distance  hke  a  muffled  cry  (because  the 
spouse  or  the  sons  of  the  dead  are  shouting 
loudly  into  his  left  ear),  and  if  he  vanquishes 
his  fatal  languor  long  enough  to  draw  away 
one  or  two  steps  from  the  doors  just  barely 
opening  to  his  desire,  —  his  soul  will  re- 
gain its  body.  But  no  melody  of  a  name 
can  rescue  those  who  have  taken  the  irre- 
trievable step  over  the  secret  sill.  Without 
doubt  I  am  in  such  a  realm,  on  the  shallow 
stones  of  this  somber  pond  which  surrounds 
me;  as,  standing  within  its  ornate  frame, 
I  taste  forgetfulness  and  the  secret  of  this 
taciturn    garden. 

An  ancient  memory  has  not  more  wind- 

[73] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


ings  or  more  secret  passages  than  the  road 
which  has  led  me  here,  through  a  succession 
of  courts,  grottoes,  and  open  corridors. 
The  art  of  this  restricted  place  is  to  hide 
its  limits  from  me  by  bewildering  me. 
Its  undulant  walls,  which  mount  and  de- 
scend, divide  it  into  separate  sections;  and, 
while  the  tops  of  trees  and  the  roofs  of 
houses,  showing  through,  seem  to  invite  the 
guest  to  search  out  their  secrets;  these 
barriers,  multiplying  surprises  and  deceits 
in  his  path,  lead  him  further  away.  Except 
for  a  wise  dwarf  with  a  skull  like  the  belly 
of  a  gourd,  or  a  pair  of  young  storks  sur- 
mounting its  ornamental  apex,  the  chahce 
of  the  roof  shadows  a  hall  not  so  deserted 
but  that  a  half-consumed  stick  of  incense 
still  smokes  there,  and  a  forgotten  flower 
fades.  The  princess  and  her  old  counselor 
have  only  just  arisen  from  yonder  seat 
and  the  greenish  air  is  still  full  of  the  rustle 
of  illustrious  silk. 

Fabulous  indeed  is  my  habitation!  I 
see,  in  these  walls  where  the  pierced  copings 
seem  to  melt  away,  banks  of  clouds;  and 
these  fantastic  windows  are  as  masses  of 
leaves  confusedly  seen  through  the  rifts. 
The  wind,  leaving  on  each  side  curving 
streamers,  gashes  irregular  breaches  in  the 
fog.     Let  me  not  gather  the  flower  of  the 

[74] 


DOORS 


afternoon  from  any  other  garden  than  this, 
which  I  enter  by  a  door  in  the  outline  of 
a  vase,  of  a  leaf,  of  a  dragon's  smoking  jaws, 
of  the  setting  sun  when  its  disk  reaches 
the  sea-Hne,  or  of  the  rising  moon! 


[75] 


THE  RIVER 

FROM  the  vast  and  yellow  river  my  eyes 
return  to  our  leadsman  crouching 
at  the  side  of  the  boat.  Turning  the  line 
in  his  fist  with  a  regular  motion,  he  sends  the 
lead  in  full  flight  across  the  muddy  waters. 
As  the  elements  of  a  parallelogram  unite, 
so  water  expresses  the  power  of  a  country 
reduced  to  geometrical  lines.  Each  drop 
is  a  fugitive  calculation,  a  visible  measure- 
ment ahvays  crossing  the  circumferential 
slope;  and,  having  found  the  lowest  point 
of  a  given  area,  it  joins  a  current  which 
flows  with  more  impetus  toward  the  deeper 
center  of  a  still  larger  circle.  This  stream 
is  immense  in  its  force  and  extent.  It  is 
the  outlet  of  a  world.  It  is  slow-moving 
Asia  pouring  forth.  Powerful  as  the  sea, 
this  river  has  a  destination  and  a  source. 
The  current  is  without  branches  or  tribu- 
taries. We  shall  have  mounted  all  these 
days  in  vain!  We  shall  never  reach  the 
fork!  Always  before  us,  cleaving  the 
countryside  with  irresistible  power  and 
volume,  the  river  evenly  divides  the  horizon 
of  the  West. 

[76] 


THE     RIVER 


All  water  seems  attractive  to  us,  but 
certainly,  more  than  the  blue  and  virgin 
sea,  this  appeals  to  that  in  us  which  is 
between  the  flesh  and  the  soul,  —  our 
human  current  charged  with  virtue  and 
with  spirit,  the  deep  and  burning  blood. 
Here  is  one  of  the  great  ^laboring  veins  of 
the  world,  one  of  the  arteries  for  the  dis- 
tribution of  hfe.  Beneath  me  I  feel  moving 
the  protoplasm  which  strives  and  destroys, 
which  fills  and  fashions  us.  And,  while 
we  remount  this  enormous  river  which  melts 
about  us  into  the  gray  sky  and  swallows 
up  our  route,  it  is  the  entire  earth  which  we 
receive,  the  Earth  of  the  earth:  Asia, 
mother  of  all  men,  central,  solid,  primordial. 
Oh  abundant  bosom!  Surely  I  see  it,  and 
it  is  vainly  that  the  grass  everywhere  dis- 
guises it;  I  have  penetrated  this  mystery. 
As  water  with  a  purple  stain  might  attest 
some  undeniable  wound,  so  the  earth  has 
impregnated  this  river  with  her  substance. 
It  is  solely  of  gold. 

The  sky  is  lowering.  The  clouds  move 
slowly  toward  the  north.  To  right  and  left 
I  see  a  somber  Mesopotamia.  Here  are 
neither  villages  nor  cultivation;  only  here 
and  there,  between  the  stripped  trees, 
four  or  five  primitive  huts,  some  fishing- 
tackle   on   the   bank,    and   a   ruined   boat 

[77] 


THE    EAST     I     KNOW 


which  moves  —  a  miserable  vessel  hoisting 
a  rag  for  sail!  Extermination  has  passed 
over  this  country,  and  the  river  which  car- 
ries opulent  hfe  and  nourishment  waters 
a  region  no  less  deserted  than  where  the 
first  waters  issued  from  Paradise,  when 
Man,  hollowing  the  horn  of  an  ox,  dehv- 
ered  the  first  rude,  harsh  cry  in  the  echoless 
wastes. 


[78] 


THE  RAIN 

BY  the  two  windows  before  me,  the  two 
at  my  left,  and  the  two  at  my  right, 
I  see  and  hear  the  rain  faUing  in  torrents 
on  every  side.  I  think  it  is  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  past  noon.  Luminous  water  is  all 
about  me.  I  dip  my  pen  in  the  ink;  and, 
rejoicing  Hke  an  insect  in  the  center  of  a 
bubble  in  the  security  of  my  watery  impris- 
onment, I  write  this  poem.  i 
It  is  not  a  drizzle  that  falls;  it  is  not  a 
languishing  and  doubtful  rain.  The  rain 
grips  the  earth  and  beats  upon  it  in  serried 
sullenness,  with  a  heavy,  powerful  assault. 
How  cool  it  is,  oh  frogs,  to  forget  the  pond 
in  the  thickness  of  the  damp  grass!  No 
need  to  fear  that  the  rain  is  ceasing.  It  is 
copious,  it  is  satisfying.  He  is  thirsty 
indeed,  my  brothers,  for  whom  this  mar- 
velous beaker  does  not  suffice.  The  earth 
has  disappeared,  the  house  bathes,  the  sub- 
merged trees  stream;  the  very  river,  which 
terminates  my  horizon  like  the  sea,  seems 
drowned.  Time  has  no  duration,  and, 
straining  my  ears  not  only  for  the  unlock- 
ing of  each  new  hour,  I  meditate  the  psalm 

[79] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


of  the  rain,  so  endless  and  so  neutral  in 
tone.  But  toward  the  end  of  the  day  the 
rain  ceases,  and,  while  the  accumulated 
clouds  prepare  for  a  heavier  assault,  —  as 
if  Iris  from  the  summit  of  the  sky  were 
about  to  flash  straight  into  the  heart  of 
the  conflict,  —  a  black  spider  sways  head 
downward  and  hung  by  his  rear  in  the 
middle  of  this  window  which  I  have  opened 
on  the  leafage  and  the  walnut-stained 
North.  It  is  no  longer  clear.  I  must 
strike  a  light.  Meanwhile  I  shall  make  to 
tempests  a  libation  of  this  drop  of  ink. 


80] 


NIGHT  ON  THE  VERANDAH 

CERTAIN  redskins  believe  that  the 
souls  of  still-born  children  live  in  the 
shells  of  winkles.  I  am  Hstening  tonight 
to  the  uninterrupted  chorus  of  tree-frogs, 
like  childish  elocution,  hke  a  plaintive 
recitation  of  little  girls,  like  an  ebullition 
of  vowels. 

I  have  long  studied  the  ways  of  the  stars. 
Some  move  singly,  others  mount  in  squad- 
rons, I  have  recognized  the  "Doors"  and 
the  "Three  Ways."  As  the  clearest  space 
gains  the  zenith,  Jupiter  with  pure  greenish 
brilliance  moves  forth  like  a  golden  calf. 
The  position  of  the  stars  is  not  left  to  chance. 
The  interplay  of  their  distances  gives  me 
the  proportions  of  the  void.  Their  swing 
participates  in  our  equihbrium,  vital  rather 
than  mechanical.  I  feel  their  oscillations 
beneath  my  feet. 

Arriving  at  the  last  of  these  ten  windows, 
the  mystic  secret  consists  in  surprising  at 
the  opposite  window,  across  the  shadowy, 
uninhabited  room,  another  fragment  of  the 
heavenly  chart. 

[8i] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 

No  intrusion  will  derange  your  dreams, 
and  no  celestial  glances  into  your  chamber 
will  disquiet  your  repose,  if  before  going  to 
bed  you  are  careful  to  arrange  this  great 
mirror  before  the  night.  Since  the  earth 
presents  such  a  wide  sea  to  the  stars,  it 
must  also  render  itself  liable  to  their  in- 
fluence and  spread  its  deep  ocean  beneath 
them  like  a  photographic  developing  bath. 

The  night  is  so  calm  that  it  seems  to  me 
embalmed. 


[82] 


THE  SPLENDOR  OF  THE  MOON 

BY  this  key  which  rids  me  of  the  world, 
opening  to  my  blindness  a  muffled 
door;  by  this  irresistible  drifting  away, 
by  the  mysterious  sweetness  which  ani- 
mates me  and  the  deep  response  of  my  own 
heart  to  a  soft  explosion  of  mysterious 
sounds,  I  reahze  that  I  am  asleep,  and  I 
awaken. 

I  had  left  my  four  windows  open  to  the 
dark  and  somber  night;  and  now,  going  out 
on  the  verandah,  I  see  all  the  depth  of 
space  filled  with  thy  light,  oh  sun  of  dreams! 
Far  from  disturbing  sleep,  this  fire  rising 
from  the  midst  of  darkness  creates  it,  over- 
powering my  senses  more  profoundly.  But 
not  in  vain,  like  a  priest  awakened  for  his 
midnight  mass,  have  I  come  from  my  bed 
to  survey  this  mysterious  mirror.  The 
light  of  the  sun  is  a  force  of  fife  and  of 
creation,  and  our  vision  partakes  of  its 
energy;  but  the  splendor  of  the  moon  is 
like  thought  meditating  upon  itself.  I 
contemplate  her  alone,  lost  to  sound  and 
heat;  and  all  creation  paints  itself  black 
beneath  her  brilhant  expanse. 

[83] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 

What  solemn  orgies!  Long  before  the 
morning,  I  contemplate  the  image  of  the 
world.  And  already  yonder  great  tree  has 
flowered.  Straight  and  alone,  hke  an  im- 
mense white  niac;  bride  of  the  night,  it 
trembles  all  dripping  with  light.  Oh  star 
of  after-midnight!  Not  the  pole-star  at 
the  dizzy  zenith,  nor  the  red  fire  of  the  Bull, 
nor  that  planet  which  is  revealed  by  a 
moving  leaf,  clear  topaz  in  the  heart  of 
yonder  dark  tree,  —  none  of  these  do  I 
choose  as  queen,  but  high  above  them  that 
farthest  star  lost  in  infinite  light,  that  my 
eye  acclaims  in  accord  with  my  heart,  and 
recognizes  only  to  see  it  disappear. 


[84] 


DREAMS 

AT  night,  on  your  way  to  listen  to  music, 
take  care  to  have  a  lantern  for  your 
return!  Shod  in  white,  be  careful  not  to 
lose  sight  of  either  of  your  shoes;  for  fear 
that,  having  once  confided  the  sole  of  your 
foot  to  an  invisible  path  through  the  fog, 
an  unknown  road  does  not  lead  you  hope- 
lessly astray  and  the  dawn  find  you  en- 
tangled in  the  top  of  a  flagstaff  or  cHng- 
ing  to  the  corner  of  a  temple  wall  as  a  bat 
does  upon  the  head  of  a  chimera. 

Seeing  this  stretch  of  white  wall  lit  by 
the  intense  fire  of  the  moon,  the  priest  did 
not  hesitate,  by  means  of  his  rudder,  to 
drive  his  httle  boat  against  it;  and  in  the 
morning  a  bare,  bright  sea  betrayed  no- 
where any  trace  of  his  oar. 

The  fisher,  having  digested  this  long  day 
of  silence  and  melancholy  —  the  sky,  the 
fields,  three  trees,  and  the  water  —  has  not 
prolonged  expectation  so  vainly  that  nothing 
is  taken  by  his  bait.  To  his  very  marrow 
he  feels  (with  the  clutch  of  his  fish-hook) 
the  swift  tension  of  his  rigid  line,  which, 

[85] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


cutting  the  glassy  surface,  draws  him  toward 
black  depths.  A  leaf,  twirling  over,  does 
not  ripple  the  transparence  of  the  pool. 

Who  knows  where  you  would  not  be 
liable  some  day  to  discover  the  mark  of 
your  hand  and  the  seal  of  your  thumb, 
if  each  night  before  sleeping  you  would 
take  care  to  smear  your  fingers  with  a  thick 
black  ink? 

Moored  to  the  outer  opening  of  my  chim- 
ney, a  canoe,  hanging  almost  vertical,  awaits 
me.  Having  finished  my  work,  I  am  in- 
vited to  take  tea  in  one  of  those  islands 
which  cross  the  sky  in  the  direction  East 
Southwest. 

With  its  clustered  buildings  and  the  warm 
tones  of  its  marble  walls,  the  locahty  re- 
sembles a  city  in  Africa  or  in  Italy.  The 
system  of  drainage  is  perfect,  and  on  the 
terrace  where  we  are  seated  one  enjoys 
pure  air  and  a  most  extended  view.  Un- 
finished buildings,  ruined  wharves,  the 
foundations  of  crumbhng  bridges,  surround 
this  cyclad  on  all  sides. 

Since  the  jetty  of  yellow  mud  where  we 
live  has  been  embraced  by  this  pearly  ex- 
panse, —  from  an  inundation  whose  progress 
I  survey  each  evening  from  the  ramparts, 
[86] 


DREAMS 

—  all  illusion  and  enchantment  mount  up 
to  me.  It  is  in  vain  that  the  barges  come 
unceasingly  from  the  other  side  of  the 
lagoon,  carrying  us  earth  to  strengthen  our 
crumbling  embankments.  What  faith  I 
had  in  these  green  fields,  road-divided,  to 
which  the  farmer  would  not  hesitate  to 
confide  his  seeds  and  his  labor!  And  then 
one  day,  on  ascending  the  wall,  I  saw  them 
replaced  by  these  waters  the  color  of  the 
dawn.  Only  a  village  emerges  here  and 
there,  a  tree  drowned  to  the  branches; 
and,  at  this  place  where  a  yellow  gang  was 
digging,  I  see  boats  as  close  together  as 
eyelashes.  But  also  I  read  menaces  in  this 
too-beautiful  evening!  No  stronger  than 
an  ancient  precept  against  voluptuousness 
is  this  ruined  wall,  where  the  miserable 
soldiers  who  guard  the  gates  announce 
the  night  by  blasts  from  trumpets  four 
feet  long.  It  cannot  defend  our  black  fac- 
tories and  warehouses,  filled  with  hides 
and  tallow,  against  the  night  and  against 
the  irresistible  spread  of  these  rose-colored 
and  azure  waters;  for  an  oncoming  wave 
will  sweep  me  from  my  feet  and  carry  me 
away,  hfting  me  up  beneath  the  arms. 

And  again  I  see  myself  at  the  highest 
fork  of  an  old  tree  in  the  wind,  a  child  bal- 

[87] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


anced  among  the  apples.  From  there, 
like  a  god  on  his  pinnacle,  spectator  of  the 
theater  of  the  world,  I  study  with  deep 
consideration  the  rehef  and  conformation 
of  the  earth,  its  disposition  of  slopes  and 
planes.  With  the  piercing  eye  of  a  crow 
I  peer  up  and  down  the  country  spread  out 
under  my  perch.  I  follow  this  road  which, 
appearing  twice  on  the  brow  of  little  hills, 
finally  loses  itself  in  the  forest.  I  miss 
nothing:  the  direction  of  smoke,  the  qualities 
of  shadow  and  of  light,  the  progress  of  the 
farmwork,  a  wagon  which  lurches  along  the 
road,  the  shots  of  the  hunters.  No  need 
of  a  paper  wherein  I  could  only  read  the 
past!  I  have  only  to  climb  to  this  branch, 
and,  across  the  wall,  all  the  present  is  before 
me.  The  moon  rises.  I  turn  my  face 
toward  her,  bathed  with  light  in  this  house 
of  fruits.  I  remain  motionless,  and  from 
time  to  time  an  apple  from  the  tree  falls 
like  a  ripe  and  heavy  thought. 


[88] 


HEAT 

TODAY  is  more  arduous  than  the  In- 
ferno. Out  of  doors  is  an  overpower- 
ing sun.  A  blinding  splendor  devours  all 
the  shade,  a  splendor  so  steady  that  it 
seems  solid.  I  see  in  everything  around 
me  less  of  immobihty  than  of  stupor,  an 
arrested  effort.  For  the  earth  in  these 
four  moons  has  completed  her  production. 
It  is  time  that  her  spouse  kill  her,  and, 
unveihng  the  fire  with  which  he  burns, 
condemn  her  with  an  inexorable  kiss. 

As  for  me,  what  shall  I  say?  Ah,  if 
this  flaming  heat  is  frightful  to  my  frailty, 
if  my  eye  turns  away,  if  my  body  sweats, 
if  I  sink  on  my  knees,  I  will  blame  this 
inert  flesh;  but  the  virile  spirit  will  soar 
free  in  an  heroic  transport!  I  feel  it,  my 
soul  hesitates,  but  nothing  less  than  the 
supreme  can  satisfy  this  exquisite  and 
terrible  jealousy.  Let  others  hide  under 
the  earth,  obstructing  with  care  the  least 
fissure  in  their  buildings;  but  a  sublime 
heart,  pressed  against  the  sharpness  of  love, 
will   embrace   fire   and   torture.     Sun,   re- 

[89] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


double  thy  flames!  It  is  not  enough  to 
burn,  —  consume!  My  sorrow  would  be 
not  to  sufi^er  enough.  May  nothing  im- 
pure escape  from  the  furnace,  no  blindness 
from  the  torture  of  the  light! 


[90 1 


THE  VISION  OF  A  CITY 

AT  the  hour  when,  urged  by  an  exalted 
foreboding,  such  a  man  as  I,  wifeless 
and  childless,  reaches  the  level  of  the  set- 
ting sun;  as  he  attains  the  mountain's 
crest  high  above  the  earth  and  its  people, 
he  sees  the  mysterious  representation  of  a 
splendid  city  hanging  enormous  in  the 
sky.     It  is  a  city  of  temples. 

In  modern  cities  we  see  the  streets  and 
the  different  quarters  crowd  and  center 
about  various  markets  and  exchanges, 
schools  and  municipal  buildings,  whose  high 
pinnacles  and  distributed  masses  stand 
out  above  the  uniform  roofs;  but  here  the 
poised  image  of  an  eternal  city,  built  by  the 
evening  in  the  form  of  a  triple  mountain, 
discloses  not  a  single  earthly  detail,  and 
shows  nothing  in  the  infinite  ramification 
of  its  construction  and  the  type  of  its  archi- 
tecture which  is  not  appropriate  to  the 
subhme  service  it  renders,  although  accom- 
pHshed  without  preparation  or  practise. 

And  as  the  citizen  of  a  kingdom,  whose 
road  leads  to  the  capital,  seeks  to  under- 
stand the  plan  of  the  immense  place;    so 

[91] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


the  contemplative,  gazing  at  Jerusalem, 
fearing  to  enter  it  with  soiled  sandals, 
studies  the  interpretation  of  its  laws,  and 
the  conditions  of  a  sojourn  there.  Not  a 
nave,  not  a  single  plan  of  cupola  or  portico, 
but  responds  to  the  observances  of  a  cult; 
not  a  movement  or  a  detail  of  stairs  and 
terraces  is  disregarded  in  the  development 
of  ceremony.  The  moats  of  towers,  the 
superimposition  of  walls,  the  basihcas,  cir- 
cuses, and  reservoirs,  —  and  even  the  tree- 
tops  in  the  square  gardens,  —  are  molded 
of  the  same  snow;  and  the  violet  tinge  of 
their  shadows  is  perhaps  only  such  a  color 
of  mourning  as  irreparable  distance  adds. 

Thus  one  evening  a  sohtary  city  appeared 
for  an  instant  before  me. 


[92] 


DESCENDING  THE  RIVER 

WELL,  let  these  men  continue  to  sleep! 
May  the  boat  not  yet  arrive  at  its 
port!  Thus  shall  my  misery  be  made  to 
hear  my  last  word,  or  I  at  least  have 
said  it. 

Emerging  from  a  night's  sleep,  I  am 
awakened  in  flames. 

So  much  beauty  compels  my  laughter. 
What  splendor,  what  brilliance!  What  a 
wealth  of  inextinguishable  color!  It  is 
Aurora.  Oh  God,  how  much  refreshment 
this  blue  has  for  me !  How  tender  the  green 
is,  how  cool;  and,  looking  toward  the  fur- 
thest heaven,  what  peace  to  see  it  still  so 
dark  that  the  stars  twinkle  there! 

But  how  well  you  know,  my  friend, 
where  to  turn  and  what  awaits  you,  if, 
on  Hfting  your  eyes,  you  need  not  blush 
to  behold  this  heavenly  brightness!  Oh 
may  it  indeed  be  this  color  which  I  am 
given  to  contemplate!  Not  red,  and  not 
the  color  of  the  sun,  it  is  the  fusing  of  blood 
in  gold.  It  is  Hfe  consummated  in  victory. 
It  is  the  perpetual  renewal  of  youth  in 
eternity. 

[93] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 

The  thought  that  this  is  only  the  day 
arising  does  not  diminish  my  exaltation  in 
the  least;  but  the  thing  that  embarrasses 
me  like  a  lover,  that  makes  me  tremble 
through  my  whole  body,  is  the  intention 
hidden  in  such  glory.  It  is  my  admission 
to  it,  it  is  my  progress  toward  meeting  with 
this   joy. 

Drink,  oh  my  heart,  of  these  inexhaust- 
ible  delights! 

What  do  you  fear?  Do  you  not  see  how 
the  current,  accelerating  the  movement  of 
our  boat,  leads  us  on?  Why  doubt  that  we 
shall  arrive,  and  that  endless  day  will  re- 
spond^to  the  brightness  of  such  a  promise? 
I  foresee  that  the  sun  will  rise,  and  that  I 
must  prepare  to  sustain  its  power.  Oh 
light,  drown  all  transitory  things  in  the 
depth  of  thy  abyss! 

Let  noon  come,  and  it  will  be  vouch- 
safed me  to  meditate,  Summer,  upon  thy 
reign,  and  to  include  the  whole  day  in 
my  perfected  Joy,  as  I  sit  amid  the  peace 
of  all  the  earth  in  the  harvest  solitudes. 


[94] 


c-.. 


THE  BELL 

WHILE  the  air  is  rejoicing  in  perfect 
stillness,  at  the  hour  when  the 
sun  is  consummating  the  mystery  of  noon, 
then  the  great  bell,  with  its  sonorous  and 
concave  expanse  swung  to  the  point  of 
melody  by  the  blows  of  its  cedarn  hammer, 
rings  with  the  rolling  earth;  and  soon  its 
sound,  receding  and  advancing,  has  crossed 
mountain  and  plain  until  a  wall  which  one 
can  see  on  the  far  horizon,  with  a  series  of 
Cyclopean  doors  piercing  it  at  symmetrical 
intervals,  hems  in  the  volume  of  its  resound- 
ing thunder  and  forms  the  frontier  of  its 
clamor.  In  one  corner  of  this  enclosure  a 
city  is  built.  The  rest  of  the  place  is 
occupied  by  fields,  woods,  and  tombs; 
and  here  and  there,  under  the  shadow  of 
sycamores,  the  vibrations  of  a  bronze  gong 
far  within  a  pagoda  deflect  the  echoes  of 
the  monster  as  they  die  away. 

I  have  seen,  near  the  observatory  where 
Kangchi  went  to  study  the  stars  of  old 
age,  the  pavilion  where  the  bell  resides 
under  the  guard  of  an  old  bonze,  honored 
by   offerings   and   inscriptions.      The   out- 

[95] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


Stretched  arms  of  an  average  man  are  the 
measure  of  its  width.  I  knock  with  a  fmger 
upon  its  surface,  which  sings  through  a  six- 
inch  thickness  at  the  least  shock.  For  a 
long  time  I  lend  an  ear.  And  I  recall  the 
history  of  the  molder. 

That  cord  of  silk  or  catgut  should  re- 
sound under  the  curve  of  the  bow,  that 
wood,  having  been  instructed  by  the  winds, 
should  lend  itself  to  music,  —  in  these 
phenomena  the  artisan  found  nothing  sin- 
gular; but  to  attack  the  very  element,  to 
extort  the  musical  scale  from  primitive 
soil,  seemed  to  him  the  means  of  properly 
making  Man  resonant  and  awakening  his 
clay.     So  his  art  was  the  casting  of  bells. 

His  first  bell  was  carried  up  to  heaven 
in  a  storm.  The  second,  when  they  had 
loaded  it  on  a  boat,  fell  into  the  deep  and 
muddy  waters  of  the  Kiang.  The  man 
resolved  to  make  a  third  before  he  died, 
and  this  time  he  wished  to  gather  into  one 
deep  vessel  the  soul  and  the  whole  voice 
of  the  nourishing  and  productive  earth, 
and  pack  into  one  thunderous  vibration 
the  fulness  of  all  sound.  This  was  the  plan 
that  he  conceived,  and  the  day  that  he 
commenced  his  enterprise,  a  daugl  ter  was 
born  to  him. 

Fifteen  years  he  labored  at  this  work. 

[96] 


THE     BELL 

But  it  was  in  vain  that,  having  conceived 
the  idea  of  his  bell,  he  planned  with  a  subtle 
art  the  dimensions,  curves,  and  cahber; 
or  that,  having  extracted  from  the  most 
secret  metals  whatever  hstens  and  trembles, 
he  made  sheets  so  sensitive  that  they  would 
vibrate  at  the  mere  approach  of  a  hand; 
or  that,  from  a  sonorous  instrument  placed 
among  them,  he  deeply  studied  properties 
and  harmonies.  When  a  pure  and  fault- 
less bell  had  issued  from  the  mold  of  sand, 
the  copper  side  would  never  respond  the 
expected  answer  to  his  interrogation;  or, 
if  the  double  beat  balanced  itself  in  even 
intervals,  it  was  his  misery  never  to  feel 
hfe  in  them,  —  that  indefinable  mellowness 
and  moisture  which  is  given  to  words 
formed  in  the  human  mouth. 

Meanwhile  the  girl  grew  with  her  father's 
despair;  and,  when  she  saw  that  the  old 
man  was  consumed  by  his  mania  and  no 
longer  searched  for  new  alloys,  but  threw 
into  his  crucibles  blades  of  wheat  and  the 
sap  of  aloes,  and  milk  and  the  blood  from 
his  own  veins,  —  then  a  great  pity  was 
born  in  the  heart  of  the  maiden,  for  which 
women  come  to  the  bell  today  to  venerate 
her  image  of  painted  wood.  Having  said 
her  prayer  to  the  subterranean  god,  she 
clothed  herself  in  wedding  garments;   and, 

[97] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


like  a  dedicated  victim,  having  fastened  a 
stalk  of  straw  about  her  neck,  she  threw 
herself  into  the  molten  metaL  So  the  bell 
was  given  a  soul;  and  the  resounding  ele- 
mentary forces  gained  this  feminine,  vir- 
ginal grace,  and  the  ineffable  liquid  note. 

Then  the  old  man,  having  kissed  the  still 
warm  bronze,  struck  it  powerfully  with 
his  mallet;  and  so  lively  was  the  invasion 
of  joy  at  the  perfection  he  heard,  and  the 
victory  of  its  magnificence,  that  his  heart 
languished  within  him;  and,  sinking  upon 
his  knees,  he  could  not  keep  from  dying. 

Since  then,  and  since  the  day  when  a  city 
was  born  of  its  widespread  summons,  the 
metal  has  cracked  and  gives  only  a  dying 
echo  of  its  former  self.  But  the  wise, 
with  a  vigilant  heart,  still  hear  at  the  break 
of  day,  when  a  faint,  cold  wind  comes  from 
skies  the  color  of  apricots  and  of  hop- 
flowers,  the  first  bell  —  in  the  celestial 
spaces  —  and,  at  the  somber  set  of  sun, 
the  second  bell  —  in  the  depths  of  the 
immense  and  muddy  Kiang. 


[98] 


THE  TOMB 

ON  the  pediment  of  the  funereal  portal 
I  read  an  order  to  ahght.  On  my  right 
are  some  broken  statues  in  the  reeds,  and 
an  inscription  on  a  formidable  pillar  of 
black  granite  gives  with  wearisome  detail 
the  laws  relating  to  sepulchers;  half  oblit- 
erated by  moss  a  threat  forbids  the  break- 
ing of  vases,  loud  cries,  or  the  spoihng  of 
ceremonial  basins. 

It  is  certainly  later  than  two  o'clock, 
because  I  see  that  the  dim,  round  sun  is 
already  a  third  of  the  way  down  a  dull  and 
lurid  sky.  I  can  only  mount  straight  on- 
ward, to  survey  the  arrangement  of  the 
cemetery;  and,  preparing  my  heart,  I 
start  out  on  the  road  the  funerals  follow 
across  this  home  of  the  dead,  in  itself  Kfe- 
less.  First  come,  one  after  another,  two 
square  mountains  of  brick.  Their  hollow 
centers  open  by  four  arches  on  the  four 
points  of  the  compass.  The  first  of  these 
halls  is  empty.  In  the  second  a  giant 
tortoise  of  marble,  so  high  that  I  can 
scarcely  reach  his  mustached  head  with 
my   hand,    supports   a  panegyric   column. 

[99] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


"This  is  the  porch  and  apprenticeship  of 
the  earth,"  I  thought.  "Here  Death  halted 
between  the  double  thresholds,  and  here 
the  master  of  the  world  received  supreme 
homage  between  the  four  horizons  and  the 
sky." 

But  scarcely  have  I  gone  out  by  the 
Northern  door  (it  is  not  vainly  that  I  leap 
this  rivulet!)  than  I  see  open  out  before  me 
the  country  of  the  shades. 

Forming  an  avenue  of  alternate  couples, 
monstrous  animals  appear  before  me,  facing 
each  other,  successively  repeated  kneehng 
and  standing  in  pairs;  rams,  horses,  uni- 
corns, camels,  elephants;  until,  at  the 
turning  where  the  last  of  the  procession  dis- 
appears, these  enormous  and  ugly  shapes 
loom  out  against  the  stragghng  grass. 
Further  off  are  ranged  civil  and  military 
mandarins.  These  stones  are  sent  to  cere- 
monial funerals  in  the  place  of  animals 
and  men;  and,  as  the  dead  have  crossed 
the  threshold  of  life,  it  would  not  be  suitable 
to  give  closer  Hkenesses  to  such  rephcas. 

Here,  where  this  large  cairn  —  hiding, 
they  say,  the  treasures  and  bones  of  a  very 
ancient  dynasty  —  ceases  to  bar  the  pas- 
sage, the  way  turns  toward  the  East.  I 
am  walking  now  among  soldiers  and  min- 
isters. Some  are  intact  and  standing,  others 
[  100  ] 


THE     TOMB 


lie  on  their  faces.  One  warrior  without 
a  head  still  clasps  the  hilt  of  a  sword  in 
his  fist.  By  a  triple-arched  bridge  the  path 
crosses  the  second  canal. 

Now,  by  a  series  of  stairs  where  the 
central  hand-rail  still  shows  the  imperial 
dragon,  I  cross  the  ravaged  site  of  terraces 
and  courts.  These  are  the  walks  of  Mem- 
ory, the  fugitive  traces  of  lives  which, 
leaving  the  earth,  serve  only  to  enrich  it 
by  decay;  the  steps  of  sacrifices,  the  awful 
garden  where  what  is  destroyed  attests 
its  whilom  existence  in  the  presence  of  what 
still  remains.  In  the  center  a  throne  sup- 
ports, a  baldachin  still  shelters,  the  inscrip- 
tion of  a  dynasty.  All  about,  temples  and 
guest-houses  have  become  a  confused  rub- 
bish among  the  briars. 

And  the  tomb  is  before  me. 

Between  massive  projections  of  the  square 
bastions  which  flank  it,  behind  the  deep- 
cut  channel  of  the  third  stream,  is  a  wall 
which  assures  us  that  the  end  of  our  journey 
must  be  here.  A  wall  and  nothing  but  a 
wall,  a  hundred  feet  high  and  two  hundred 
feet  wide.  Eroded  by  the  use  of  centuries, 
the  inexorable  barrier  presents  a  blind 
face  of  masonry.  A  single  round  hole  shows 
in  the  center  of  the  base,  the  mouth  of  an 
oven  or  the  oubliette  of  a  dungeon.     This 

[lOl] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 

wall  forms  the  front  of  a  sort  of  trapezoid 
formation,  detached  from  the  mountain 
which  overhangs  it.  A  low  molding,  end- 
ing beneath  an  overhanging  cornice,  stands 
out  from  the  wall  hke  a  console.  No  corpse 
is  so  suspect  as  to  require  such  a  mass 
being  placed  upon  him.  This  is  the  throne 
of  Death  itself,  the  regal  exaltation  of 
sepulture. 

A  straight  alley,  remounting  the  sloping 
plain,  crosses  a  level  plateau.  At  the  end 
there  is  only  the  same  mountain  whose 
steep  slope  conceals  in  its  depths  the  ancient 
Ming. 

And  I  understand  that  this  is  the 
sepulcher  of  the  Atheist.  Time  has  scat- 
tered the  vain  temples  and  laid  the  idols 
in  the  dust,  and  only  the  arrangement  of 
the  place  remains,  with  the  idea  it  ex- 
pressed. The  pompous  catafalques  on  the 
threshold  have  not  been  able  to  retain  the 
dead.  The  cortege  of  his  vanished  glory 
cannot  retard  him.  He  crosses  the  three 
rivers,  he  traverses  the  manifold  courts 
filled  with  incense;  nor  is  the  monument  that 
has  been  prepared  for  him  sufficient  to  hold 
him.  He  cleaves  his  way  further,  and 
enters  into  the  very  body  and  bones  of 
primitive  earth.  It  is  merely  an  animal 
interment,  the  mixing  of  crude  flesh  with 
f  102  1 


THE     TOMB 


inert  and  compact  clay.  The  king  and 
peasant  are  forever  consolidated  into  this 
death  without  a  dream  or  an  awakening. 

But  the  shadow  of  evening  spreads  over 
this  cruel  place.  Oh  ruins,  the  tomb  has 
survived  you!  And  the  brutal  stohdity 
of  this  bulk  is  a  perfect  symbol  of  death 
itself. 

As  I  return  among  the  colossal  statues 
of  stone,  I  see  in  the  dried  grass  the  decaying 
corpse  of  a  horse,  which  a  dog  is  tearing. 
The  beast  looks  at  me  as  he  licks  the  blood 
which  trickles  down  his  chops;  then,  apply- 
ing his  paws  again  to  the  red  carcass,  he 
tears  off  a  long  strip  of  flesh.  The  mangled 
remains  are  spread  about. 


[  103] 


THE  MELANCHOLY  WATER 

THERE  is  an  intelligence  in  joy,  I  admit 
it.  There  is  a  vision  in  laughter. 
But  that  you  may  comprehend,  my  friend, 
this  medley  of  blessedness  and  bitterness 
which  the  act  of  creation  includes,  now  that 
the  melancholy  season  begins  I  shall  explain 
to  you  the  sadness  of  water. 

The  same  tear  falls  from  the  sky  that 
overflows  from  the  eyelid.  Do  not  think 
to  accuse  the  cloud  of  your  melancholy, 
nor  this  veil  of  vague  showers.  Shut  your 
eyes;   listen!     The  rain  falls. 

Nor  does  the  monotony  of  this  constant 
sound  suffice  to  explain  it. 

It  is  a  weary  mourning  whose  cause  is 
within  itself.  It  is  the  self-absorption  of 
love;  it  is  the  eff'ort  in  labor.  The  heavens 
weep  over  the  fruitful  earth.  Not  only 
Autumn,  and  the  future  fall  of  fruit  whose 
seed  she  nourishes,  draws  these  tears  from 
the  wintry  cloud.  Sorrow  is  in  the  Summer; 
in  the  flower  of  hfe  is  the  blossoming  of 
death. 

At  the  moment  when  the  hour  before  noon 
is  ended,  as  I  descend  into  the  valley  filled 

[  104  ] 


THE     MELANCHOLY     WATER 

with  the  murmur  of  various  fountains,  I 
pause  enchanted  by  the  gloom.  How 
abundant  are  these  waters!  And  if  tears, 
like  blood,  have  their  perpetual  source  in  us, 
how  refreshing  it  is,  listening  to  this  hquid 
choir  of  voices,  deep  or  shrill,  to  harmonize 
from  them  all  the  shades  of  grief!  There  is 
no  passion  but  could  borrow  of  your  tears, 
oh  fountain!  And  since  the  brightness  of 
this  single  drop,  falling  from  on  high  into 
the  basin  upon  the  image  of  the  moon, 
satisfies  my  particular  desire,  not  in  vain 
shall  I  have  learned  to  love  your  sanc- 
tuary through  many  dreamy  afternoons, 
oh  sorrowful  valley! 

I  return  to  the  plain.  On  the  doorsill 
of  his  hut,  —  where,  in  the  inner  darkness, 
gleams  a  candle  Ht  for  some  rustic  fete,  — 
a  man  sits,  holding  in  his  hand  a  dusty 
cymbal.  It  rains  heavily.  In  the  midst 
of  this  damp  sohtude,  I  hear  only  the  cry 
of  a  goose. 


[  105] 


THE  NIGHT  VOYAGE 

I  HAVE  forgotten  why  I  undertook  this 
voyage,  and  what  matter  I  was  to  ne- 
gotiate, as  Confucius  did  when  he  went  to 
carry  his  doctrine  to  the  Prince  of  Ou. 
Seated  all  day  in  the  depths  of  my  varnished 
cabin,  my  urgency,  on  these  calm  waters, 
does  not  outrun  the  swanhke  progress  of 
the  little  boat.  Only  occasionally  in  the 
evening  I  come  out  to  look  at  the  aspect 
of  the  country. 

Our  winter  here  has  no  severity.  Season 
dear  to  the  philosopher,  these  bare  trees, 
this  yellow  grass,  sufficiently  attest  the 
passing  of  the  time,  without  atrocious 
cold  or  unnecessary  violence.  In  this 
twelfth  month,  cemeteries  and  kitchen 
gardens,  and  a  country  mounded  every- 
where with  tombs,  spread  out  in  dull  pro- 
ductivity. The  clumps  of  blue  bamboo, 
the  somber  pines  above  the  sepulchers, 
the  gray-green  reed-grass,  arrest  and  satisfy 
one's  gaze.  The  yellow  flowers  of  the  New 
Year's  Candlestick  and  the  waxen  berries 
of  the  Soot  Tree  give  a  real  beauty  to  the 
[io6] 


THE     NIGHT     VOYAGE 


somber  picture.     I  proceed  in  peace  across 
this  temperate  region. 

Now  it  is  night.  It  would  be  vain  to 
wait,  stationed  in  the  bow  of  this  junk, 
for  the  reflection  of  our  wooden  anchor  to 
trace  on  the  beatified  water  the  image  of 
that  waning  moon  which  only  midnight 
holds  for  us.  All  is  dark;  but  as  we  move 
on,  propelled  by  the  scull  which  steers  our 
prow,  we  need  not  fear  mistaking  our  way. 
These  canals  permit  of  numberless  detours. 
Let  us  pursue  the  voyage  with  tranquilhty, 
our  eyes  on  yonder  solitary  star. 


[  107] 


THE  HALT  ON  THE  CANAL 

NOW,  —  passing  the  place  where  old 
men  and  women  congregate,  driven 
from  their  far-off  villages  by  the  need  of 
food,  and  travehng  on  rafts  made  of  their 
house-doors,  guided  by  the  domestic  duck, 
—  encountering  waters  which  seem  as  if 
they  were  flooded  with  rice,  that  they  may 
fitly  enter  into  a  region  of  opulence;  push- 
ing across  this  large  and  rectilinear  canal 
which  bounds  the  rude  high  wall  enclosing 
the  city  and  its  people,  where  the  exag- 
gerated arch  of  a  bridge  frames  with  even- 
ing the  crenelated  tower  of  a  gate  opening 
on  the  dark  countryside;  by  the  wharf  we 
tie  up  our  boat  among  square  stone  tombs 
in  the  grass,  the  crude  material  of  epitaphs. 
With  day  our  investigation  begins.  We 
become  entangled  in  a  maze  of  Chinese 
streets,  murky  and  moist  with  domestic 
odors.  For  a  long  time  we  follow  the  nar- 
row foot-path  in  the  turmoil  of  the  market- 
place, in  the  midst  of  a  people  mixed  in 
with  their  dwelHngs  as  bees  are  with  their 
wax  and  honey.  I  recall  a  little  girl  winding 
a  skein  of  green  silk,  a  barber  cleaning  the 
[io8] 


THE     HALT     ON     THE     CANAL 

ear  of  his  client  with  a  fine  pincer  like  the 
antennae  of  a  crawfish;  a  little  donkey 
turning  a  millstone  near  an  oil  warehouse, 
the  dark  quiet  of  a  pharmacy  within  whose 
depths,  through  the  gilded  frame  of  a 
moon-shaped  door,  two  red  candles  flame 
before  the  name  of  the  apothecary.  We 
traverse  many  courts,  more  than  a  hundred 
bridges. 

Winding  through  narrow  alleys  bordered 
by  great  sepia-colored  walls,  we  reach  the 
richer  quarter.  If  these  closed  doors  should 
open  to  us,  they  would  show  vestibules 
flagged  with  stone,  a  reception  hall  with 
its  large  bed-table,  a  little  peach-tree  flower- 
ing in  a  pot,  and  smoky  passages  whose 
rafters  are  hung  with  hams  and  bundles. 
Hidden  behind  this  wall,  in  a  Httle  court 
we  find  a  monster  of  a  wisteria  plant.  Its 
hundred  creepers  interlace,  interweave,  tie 
themselves  in  knots,  and  twine  into  a  kind 
of  manifold,  tortuous  cable,  which,  thrust- 
ing out  its  woody,  serpentine  length  on  all 
sides,  spreads  over  the  trelKs,  hiding  its 
trench  in  a  thick  sky  of  mauve  clusters. 
Let  us  traverse  the  ruins  of  this  long  suburb 
where  naked  men  are  weaving  silk  in  the 
debris.  We  shaH  gain  a  deserted  space 
which  occupies  the  south  side  of  the  en- 
closure. 

[  109] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 

Here,  they  say,  was  formerly  the  imperial 
residence;  and  in  fact  the  triple  grating 
and  quadruple  framework  of  the  consecu- 
tive doors  bar,  with  their  granite  outhnes, 
the  wide  flagged  road  on  which  we  walk. 
The  enclosure  contains  nothing  but  rank 
herbage;  and,  —  at  the  place  where  the 
"Four  Ways"  meet,  which  diverge  toward 
the  four  cardinal  points  under  triumphal 
arches,  —  with  an  inscription  like  a  map 
displayed  to  the  whole  Kingdom,  the  im- 
perial stele,  defaced  by  the  fissures  in  its 
marble,  slants  on  the  decapitated  tortoise 
which  is  its  base. 

The  Chinese  show  everywhere  represen- 
tations of  that  inherent  emptiness  whose 
necessity  they  emphasize.  ''Let  us  honor,'* 
says  the  Tao  teh  King,  "Vacuity,  which  gives 
to  the  wheel  its  utihty  and  to  the  lute  its 
harmony!"  These  ruins  and  these  fallow 
tracts  which  are  found  in  the  same  enclosure 
close  to  the  densest  multitudes,  these  sterile 
mountains  shouldering  the  most  meticulous 
culture,  and  the  wide  expanse  of  the  ceme- 
teries, do  not  impress  the  mind  with  a 
false  idea;  for,  in  the  density  and  mass  of 
this  coherent  people,  administration  and 
justice,  rehgion  and  monarchy,  disclose  by 
contrasts  no  less  strange  the  same  yawning 
vacancy  of  vain  phantoms  and  ruins. 

[no] 


THE     HALT     ON     THE     CANAL 

China  is  not,  like  Europe,  elaborated 
into  compartments.  No  boundaries,  no 
special  statutes,  oppose  any  resistance 
throughout  her  immense  area  to  the  spread 
of  her  surging''  humanity.  That  is  why, 
powerless  as  is  the  sea  to  foresee  its  agita- 
tions, this  nation  which  can  only  be  saved 
from  destruction  by  its  plasticity,  shows 
everywhere,  Hke  Nature  itself,  an  antique 
and  provisory  aspect,  —  unstable,  full  of 
hazards,  possibilities,  and  deficiencies.  The 
present  always  contains  the  influences  of 
the  past  and  the  future.  Man  has  not  made 
an  absolute  conquest  of  the  soil,  a  final  and 
methodical  arrangement.  The  multitude 
still  graze  upon  grass. 

Suddenly  a  lugubrious  cry  overwhelms 
us!  The  guardian  of  the  enclosure,  at 
the  foot  of  one  of  the  gates  designed  like 
an  upright  letter  which  frame  the  field, 
sounds  on  the  long  Chinese  trumpet;  and 
we  see  the  horn  of  thin  brass  quiver  under 
the  force  of  the  sound  which  fills  it. 
Raucous  and  rumbfing,  if  he  declines  the 
trumpet  toward  the  earth;  and  strident 
if  he  hfts  it;  without  inflection  and  without 
cadences,  the  dreary  blaring  noise  cul- 
minates in  the  reverberance  of  a  frightful 
uproar,  —  do  fa,  do  fa!  The  harsh  cafl 
of  a  peacock  would  not  startle  more  the 

[III] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


drowsiness  of  this  abandoned  garden.  It 
is  the  horn  of  the  shepherd,  and  not  the 
bugle,  which  speaks  and  commands.  This 
is  not  the  singing  trumpet  which  leads 
armies  on,  —  it  is  the  collective  voice  of 
beasts;  and  the  herd  or  the  flocks  confusedly 
assemble  at  its  sound.  But  we  are  alone; 
and  for  nothing  living  does  the  Mongol 
trumpet  at  this  mysterious  crossing  of  the 
Ways. 

When  we  return  to  our  boat,  it  is  almost 
night.  At  sunset,  all  down  the  horizon 
the  clouds  seem  tinted  with  blue,  and  on 
the  dim  earth  the  fields  of  colzas  shine  like 
blows  of  hght. 


[112] 


THE  PINE-TREE 

IN  Nature,  only  the  tree  is  upright  as 
man  is,  and  for  a  symbolic  reason. 

A  man  holds  himself  erect  by  preserving 
his  balance,  and  his  two  arms,  hanging  at 
his  sides,  are  no  part  of  his  unity.  But, 
though  attached  to  the  earth  by  the  col- 
lective grasp  of  its  roots,  the  tree  raises 
itself  with  an  effort;  its  multifold  and  diver- 
gent parts,  spreading  out  into  a  fragile  and 
sensitive  tissue  of  leaves,  by  which  it  seeks 
for  some  support  in  the  very  air  and  hght, 
constitute  no  mere  gesture  but  the  very 
essential  act  and  condition  of  its  growth. 

The  family  of  conifers  shows  a  special 
characteristic.  In  them  I  perceive  not  only 
a  ramification  of  the  trunk  into  branches, 
but  also  their  articulation  on  a  stem  that 
rises  straight  and  single,  —  an  articulation 
which  gradually  multiphes  into  threadhke 
leaves.  The  fir-tree  is  typical  of  such  a 
class,  with  the  symmetrical  intersections 
of  its  branches,  whose  essential  plan  is 
simply  a  perpendicular  crossed  by  a  graded 
series  of  horizontal  hues. 

[113] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 

This  type  includes  many  variations  in 
the  different  regions  of  the  world.  The 
most  interesting  is  that  of  the  pines  I  studied 
in  Japan. 

Rather  than  the  rigidity  usual  to  wood, 
the  trunk  appears  to  have  a  fleshy  elasticity. 
Under  the  tension  on  the  strong,  cylindrical 
stem  of  compact  fibers,  its  sheath  sphts 
and  the  rough  bark,  divided  into  pentag- 
onal scales,  —  with  deep  cracks  between 
them  from  which  resin  oozes  abundantly, 

—  expands  in  tough  layers.  And  if,  through 
the  suppleness  of  its  jointless  body,  the 
trunk  yields  to  the  exterior  forces  which 
violently  assail  it  or  seductively  allure  it, 
the  tree  resists  by  its  inherent  energy; 
and  the  drama  of  its  pathetic  struggle  is 
written  in  the  tormented  twisting  of  its 
boughs. 

Thus,  along  the  tragic  old  road  to  Tok- 
kaido,  I  have  seen  the  pines  sustain  the  on- 
slaught of  the  powers  of  the  air.  In  vain 
the  wind  of  the  ocean  lays  them  low.  Cling- 
ing with  every  root  to  the  stony  soil,  the 
invincible  trees  writhe,  twist  upon  them- 
selves, and,  —  like  a  man  braced  on  all 
fours,  who  butts  with  his  head,  kicks  in 
all  directions,  and  hunches  himself  together, 

—  they  seem  to  grapple  with  the  antago- 
nist,  to    re-estabhsh    themselves,    and    to 

[114] 


THE     PINE-TREE 


Straighten  up  under  the  Protean  assaults 
of  the  monster  who  would  overcome  them. 
All  along  the  solemn  beach  I  have  passed 
their  heroic  lines  in  review  on  this  somber 
evening,  and  watched  all  the  vicissitudes  of 
the  battle.  One  leans  backward,  and 
stretches  toward  the  sky  a  monstrous 
panoply  of  halberds  and  shields  which  he 
brandishes  in  Briarean  fists;  another,  full 
of  wounds,  mutilated  as  by  blows  of  clubs, 
and  bristling  on  all  sides  with  jagged 
stumps,  still  wars  and  waves  a  few  feeble 
boughs;  another,  which  seems  thrown  upon 
its  back,  still  batthng  against  the  dust, 
maintains  itself  on  the  powerful  buttress 
of  its  gathered  haunches;  and  finally,  I 
saw  giants  and  princes  who,  massively 
setthng  upon  their  muscular  loins,  by  the 
reiterated  efforts  of  their  Herculean  arms, 
continued  to  hold  their  ground  on  all  sides 
against  the  tumultuous  enemy. 

I  have  still  to  speak  of  the  fohage. 

If  I  compare  to  the  pines  the  species  of 
trees  that  flourish  in  fertile  earth,  in  rich 
and  mellow  soil,  I  discover  these  four  char- 
acteristics in  them;  that  the  proportion  of 
leaf  to  wood  is  greater;  that  the  leaf  is 
deciduous;  that,  flattened,  it  shows  an  ob- 
verse and  reverse  side;  and,  finally,  that  the 
foliage,  growing  upon   the  boughs,   diver- 

[115] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


ging  from  a  common  center,  is  arranged 
like  a  single  bouquet. 

The  pine  grows  in  dry  and  stony  soil; 
therefore  its  absorption  of  the  elements 
which  nourish  it  is  less  immediate,  and 
necessitates  on  its  part  a  stronger  and 
completer  elaboration,  a  greater  functional 
activity, — and,  if  I  may  so  put  it,  more  per- 
sonal. As  it  is  limited  in  its  supply  of  water, 
it  does  not  expand  like  a  chahce.  This  one 
that  I  observe  divides  its  fohage,  spreads 
a  handful  on  every  side.  Instead  of  leaves 
which  receive  the  rain,  these  are  tufts  of 
little  tubes  which  reach  into  the  surrounding 
dampness  and  absorb  it.     And  that  is  why, 

—  independent  of  the  seasons,  sensitive 
to  more  continuous  and  subtle  influences, 

—  the  pine  shows  a  perennial  fohage. 
Thus   I   explain  the  aerial  character  of 

its  fohage,  fragmentarily  suspended.  As 
the  pine  lends  the  irregular  outhne  of  its 
boughs  to  the  hues  of  the  harmonious  land- 
scape, better  to  enhance  the  charm  and  the 
brihiancy  of  Nature,  it  also  spreads  every- 
where the  shadow  of  its  singular  tufts; 
over  the  power  and  the  glory  of  Ocean, 
bhie  in  the  sun;  over  the  harvest  fields; 
and  obstructing  the  design  of  the  constel- 
lations or  the  dawn  upon  the  sky.  It 
sweeps  its  branches  beneath  azalea  bushes 

[116] 


THE     PINE-TREE 


flaming  near  the  surface  of  lakes  blue  as 
gentian,  or  above  the  steep  embankments 
of  the  imperial  city,  close  to  the  silver, 
grass-grown  waters  of  the  canals;  and  the 
evening  on  which  I  saw  Fuji  hke  a  colossus, 
like  a  virgin  throned  in  the  clarity  of  the 
Infinite,  the  dark  tuft  of  a  pine  was  sil- 
houetted against  the  dove-colored  mountain. 


[ny] 


THE  ARCH  OF  GOLD  IN  THE 
FOREST 

WHEN  I  left  Yeddo  the  great  sun  was 
flaming  in  the  clear  sky.  Toward 
the  end  of  the  afternoon,  arriving  at  the 
Junction  of  Utsonomiya,  I  perceive  that  a 
shadow  has  darkened  all  the  sunset.  Com- 
posed of  huge,  heaped-up  clouds,  it  presents 
that  tumultuous  and  chaotic  aspect  that  a 
sky  sometimes  shows  when,  hke  the  veiled 
fire  of  footlights,  a  gleaming  streak  on  the 
horizon  throws  long  shadows  across  the 
dim  fields,  bringing  out  each  object  in  clear 
rehef.  Drowsing  on  the  wharf  just  now, 
and  for  a  long  time  in  the  train  moving 
westward,  I  have  been  a  spectator  of  the 
dechne  of  day  and  the  gradual  deepening 
of  darkness.  With  one  glance  I  have  caught 
the  whole  plan  of  the  country.  In  the 
background,  deep  forests  and  the  folds  of 
cumbrous  mountains;  in  the  foreground, 
detached  foot-paths  which  bar  the  way,  one 
behind  the  other,  like  spaced  and  parallel 
barriers.  Where  the  trenches  we  follow 
show  us  a  cross-section  of  the  earth,  we  see 
first  a  fine  mold,  black  as  coal;  then 
[ii8] 


ARCH  OF  GOLD  IN  THE  FOREST 

yellow  sand;  and  finally  clay,  red  with 
sulphur  or  cinnabar.  Avernus  spreads  out 
before  us!  Does  not  this  scorching  sun, 
this  low  sky,  this  surrounding  harshness 
of  volcanoes  and  fir-trees,  correspond  to 
that  black  abyss  from  which  the  visions 
of  dreams  arise?  Indeed  it  was  with  a 
royal  wisdom  that  the  ancient  shogun, 
leyasu,  chose  this  place  for  his  disembodied 
spirit  to  enter  the  kingdom  of  shades, 
and,  by  dissolving  in  silence  into  their 
shadows,  transmute  death  into  godhead 
as  a  temple  is  created  of  a  tomb. 

The  forest  of  cryptomeria  is  truly  a 
temple. 

Often  before,  at  this  hour  of  somber 
twihght,  I  had  crossed  the  double  avenue 
of  these  giant  trees,  —  which  extends  twenty 
leagues  to  conduct  from  the  red  bridge  the 
annual  ambassador  who  bears  Imperial 
presents  to  this  ancestral  shrine,  —  but  this 
morning,  at  the  hour  when  the  first  rays 
of  the  sun  turned  the  banks  of  somber 
verdure  above  me  to  rose  color  in  the  golden 
wind  which  swept  them,  I  penetrated  into 
the  colossal  nave,  dehciously  filled  with  a 
resinous  odor,  after  the  cold  night. 

The  cryptomeria  belong  to  the  family  of 
pines,  and  the  Japanese  have  named  it 
sengui.     It  is  a  very  tall  tree,  whose  trunk, 

[119] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


free  of  twists  and  knots,  maintains  an  in- 
violable rectitude.  There  are  no  branches, 
but  indicated  here  and  there,  as  is  the  way 
with  pines,  not  by  detail  and  rehef  but 
by  mass  and  contour,  the  leaves  float  like 
tatters  of  black  smoke  about  the  mystic 
pillar;  and  the  forest  of  these  tall  trunks, 
all  of  the  same  height,  loses  itself  in  the 
tangled  canopy  of  shadowy,  inextricable 
fohage.  The  place  is  simultaneously  limit- 
less and  confined,  filled  and  empty. 

The  marvelous  houses  are  scattered 
among  these  trees  that  have  been  parked 
for  centuries. 

I  shall  not  describe  the  whole  plan  of 
the  shaded  city,  though  it  is  marked  on  my 
fan  to  the  minutest  detail.  In  the  middle 
of  the  dedicated  forest  I  have  followed 
enormous  avenues  that  a  scarlet  torii  bars. 
At  a  bronze  basin,  under  a  roof  inlaid  with 
the  moon,  I  have  filled  my  mouth  with 
lustral  waters;  I  have  chmbed  the  stairs; 
among  many  pilgrims  I  have  passed  inde- 
scribable opulence  and  space,  the  entrance 
to  an  enclosure  that  is  like  a  dream  formed 
of  a  confusion  of  flowers  and  birds;  barefoot, 
I  have  penetrated  to  its  innermost  golden 
heart.  I  have  seen  the  priests  with  haughty 
faces,  —  with  head-dresses  of  horsehair,  and 
clothed  with  ample  trousers  of  green  silk, 
[  120] 


ARCH  OF  GOLD  IN  THE  FOREST 

—  offer  the  morning  sacrifice  to  the  sound 
of  flute  and  mouth-organ.  And  for  me  the 
sacred  kagura,  —  his  face  framed  in  white 
linen,  holding  the  tasseled  bough  of  the  pine 
devoutly  between  his  hands,  —  has  exe- 
cuted the  dance  which  consists  of  continual 
advance  and  retreat. 

As  Chinese  architecture  has  for  its  chief 
element  the  baldachin;  stories  being  raised 
as  on  the  poles  of  a  pastoral  tent;  so,  in 
Japan,  the  roofs  made  of  tiles,  or  those 
made  of  a  substance  as  powerful,  strong, 
and  light  as  a  thick  felt,  show  but  a  shght 
curve;  they  are  no  more,  in  their  elegant 
power,  than  a  cover;  and  all  this  construc- 
tion evolves  from  the  idea  of  a  box. 

Since  the  time  when  Jingo  Tenno  con- 
quered the  isles  of  the  rising  sun  with  his 
fleet,  the  Japanese  have  everywhere  pre- 
served some  signs  of  the  sea:  the  habit 
of  tucking  up  their  clothes  to  the  waist, 
these  low  cabins  which  are  their  homes  under 
an  uncertain  sun,  the  multitude  of  neat 
little  objects  and  their  careful  stowage, 
the  absence  of  furniture,  —  do  they  not  afl 
betray  the  confined  life  of  the  sailor  on  his 
precarious  deck?  And  these  wooden  houses 
are  themselves  nothing  more  than  the 
enlarged  cabin  of  a  gafley,  or  the  box  of  a 
palanquin.     The  extensions,  intersected  by 

[I2l] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


carpentry;  the  oblique  shafts,  of  which 
the  figured  heads  jut  out  at  four  angles; 
still  recall  the  quahty  of  being  portable. 
Among  the  columns  of  the  temple,  arches 
seem  the  means  by  which  it  may  be  hfted. 
Houses?  Yes.  Here  the  very  sanctuary 
is  a  house.  They  have  relegated  the  bones, 
sealed  in  a  cylinder  of  bronze,  to  the  high 
mountainside;  but  in  this  room,  seated 
on  the  unalterable  name,  the  soul  of  the 
dead  continues  a  spectral  habitation  in 
obscure  and  secret  splendor.  Reversing 
the  procedure  which  employs  wood  and 
stone  and  makes  them  of  value  without 
adding  any  strange  element  to  their  own 
properties,  artifice  has  existed  here  only  to 
annihilate  its  material.  These  enclosures, 
the  sides  of  these  boxes,  these  floors  and 
ceihngs,  are  no  longer  made  of  beams  and 
planks  but  of  certain  opaque  images  con- 
jured forth.  Color  decorates  and  adorns 
the  wood,  lacquer  drowns  it  under  impene- 
trable waters,  paint  covers  it  with  enchant- 
ments, sculpture  deeply  undermines  and 
transfigures  it.  An  end  of  timber  —  the 
least  spike  appearing  on  the  magic  surface 
—  is  covered  with  arabesques  and  inter- 
lacing lines;  but,  as  on  screens  we  see  trees 
in  flower  and  mountains  steeped  in  a  radiant 
glow,  these  palaces  emerge  entirely  golden. 
[  122] 


ARCH  OF  GOLD  IN  THE  FOREST 

On  the  roofs,  on  the  facades,  which  strike 
the  full  light  of  day,  only  the  ridges  are 
burnished  with  scattered  brightness;  but 
the  sides  are  brightened  in  vast  surfaces 
through  the  shadow;  and  inside  also,  the 
six  walls  of  the  box  are  painted  with  the 
splendors  of  hidden  treasure,  flaming  bril- 
liance revealed  by  numerous  mirrors. 

Thus  the  magnificent  shogun  does  not 
inhabit  a  house  of  mere  wood,  but  his 
dwelling  in  the  center  of  the  forest  is  in  the 
light  of  setting  suns;  and  ambrosial  incense 
abides  beneath  these  sweeping  boughs. 
Through  the  immense  spaces  of  this  region, 
deeply  slumbering  like  a  god  amid  its  sea 
of  trees,  an  occasional  dazzling  cascade 
plashes  between  the  leaves,  mingling  with 
their  ceaseless  whisper. 


[  123] 


THE  PEDESTRIAN 

TN  June,  with  a  gnarled  stick  in  my  hand 
(like  the  god  Bishamon),  I  am  that 
mysterious  passer-by  who  crosses  the  path 
of  groups  of  simple,  ruddy  peasants;  and, 
at  six  in  the  evening,  while  the  storm- 
cloud  in  the  sky  endlessly  continues  its 
monstrous  assault  on  the  mountain,  I 
am  that  lonely  man  one  sees  upon  this 
abandoned  road. 

I  am  going  nowhere  in  particular.  My 
wanderings  are  without  end  and  without 
profit.  The  itinerary  of  the  soldier  or  the 
merchant,  the  piety  of  the  sterile  woman 
who,  with  hopeful  humihty,  seven  times 
makes  a  tour  of  the  holy  peak,  —  these  have 
nothing  in  common  with  my  travels.  The 
footprint  pointed  in  the  usual  direction 
does  not  aHure  my  own  far  enough  to  lead 
me  astray;  and  soon,  urged  by  the  intimacy 
there  is  in  treading  this  moss  through  the 
heart  of  the  woods,  to  pick  the  black  leaf 
of  a  camelha  by  the  weeping  of  a  secret 
waterfall,  —  I  flee  suddenly,  hke  an  awk- 
ward deer.  Then,  amid  the  silence  of  grow- 
[  124] 


THE     PEDESTRIAN 


ing  things,  poised  on  one  foot,  I  await  the 
echo.  iJHIow  fresh  and  comic  the  song  of 
this  httle  bird  seems  to  me!  And  how  the 
cry  of  the  rooks  below  dehghts  me!  Each 
tree  has  its  personahty,  each  httle  beast 
his  part,  each  voice  its  place  in  the  sym- 
phony; as  they  say  music  is  comprehended, 
so  I  comprehend  Nature. 

It  is  Kke  a  story  of  many  details,  where 
only  the  proper  names  are  given.  As  my 
walk  —  and  the  day  —  proceeds,  I  advance 
also  in  the  development  of  a  philosophy. 
Aheady  I  have  discovered  with  dehght  that 
all  things  exist  in  a  certain  accord;  and, 
though  beheving  this  secret  relationship, 
by  which  the  blackness  of  this  pine  below 
espouses  the  clear  green  of  these  maples, 
it  is  my  purified  sight  only  which  estab- 
lishes it;  so,  because  of  this  restoration  of 
the  original  design,  I  call  my  visit  a 
Revision.  I  am  the  Inspector  of  Creation, 
the  Verifier  of  all  present  things.  The 
reality  of  this  world  is  the  cause  of  my 
beatitude.  In  ordinary  hours  we  employ 
things  for  their  usefulness,  forgetting  their 
purer  value:  that  they  should  exist  at  all. 
But  when,  after  a  long  effort,  pushing 
through  branches  and  briars,  I  place  my 
hand  on  the  burning  shoulder  of  this  heavy 
rock  in  the  heart  of  a  glade,  the  entry  of 
[  125] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


Alexander  into  Jerusalem  is  alone  compa- 
rable to  the  sublimity  of  my  achievement. 

And  I  go  on  and  on!  Each  one  of  us 
contains  in  himself  the  autonomous  power 
of  motion  by  which  he  moves  toward  his 
food  and  his  work.  As  for  me,  the  even 
motion  of  my  legs  serves  to  measure  for 
me  the  intensity  of  more  subtle  appeals. 
The  allurement  of  everything!  1  feel  it  in 
the  silence  of  my  soul.  I  understand  the 
harmony  of  the  world.  When  shall  I 
surprise  its  melody? 


[126] 


HERE  AND  THERE 

IN  the  street  called  Nihon  Bashi,  near  the 
merchants  of  books  and  lanterns,  of 
embroideries  and  bronzes,  miniature  gar- 
dens are  sold;  and,  as  a  studious  idler  amid 
this  fantastic  display,  I  mentally  compare 
these  little  fragments  of  the  world.  The 
artists  have  subtly  shown  themselves 
masters  of  the  exquisite  laws  by  which  the 
hnes  of  a  landscape  are  composed,  Hke  those 
of  a  physiognomy.  Instead  of  drawing 
nature  they  reproduce  it,  constructing  their 
counterfeits  from  the  very  elements  of  the 
original,  which  they  borrow  —  as  a  rule  is 
illustrated  by  an  example.  These  images 
are  usually  exact  and  perfect  replicas.  All 
sorts  and  kinds  of  pines,  for  instance,  are 
offered  me  to  choose  from;  and  their  posi- 
tion in  the  jar,  with  their  height  as  a  scale, 
proportionately  shows  the  dimensions  of 
their  original  territory.  Here  is  a  rice-field 
in  Springtime;  in  the  distance  is  a  hill 
fringed  with  trees  (they  are  made  of  moss). 
Here  is  the  sea,  with  its  archipelago  and  its 
capes!  By  the  artifice  of  two  stones,  one 
black,  one  red,  and  rather  worn  and  porous, 
[  127] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


they  have  represented  two  islands  that 
appear  to  be  Joined  together,  whose  differ- 
ence in  distance  is  shown  only  by  their 
different  colors,  apparently  due  to  the  hght 
of  the  setting  sun.  And  even  the  many- 
colored  sunset  is  represented  by  this  bed  of 
motley  pebbles  covered  with  the  contents 
of  two  carafes. 

Now,  to  amplify  my  thought! 

The  European  artist  copies  nature  accord- 
ing to  the  sentiment  that  he  has  for  it. 
The  Japanese  imitates  it  according  to  the 
materials  with  which  it  furnishes  him. 
One  expresses  himself,  the  other  expresses 
nature.  One  creates,  the  other  mimics. 
One  paints,  the  other  constructs.  One  is  a 
student;  the  other,  in  a  way,  a  master. 
One  reproduces  in  its  detail  the  spectacle 
that  he  surveys  with  a  searching  and  subtle 
gaze;  the  other  disengages  its  law  with  a 
flash  of  the  eye,  in  the  freedom  of  his  fancy; 
and  apphes  it  with  a  scriptural  conciseness. 

Here  the  first  inspiration  of  the  artist  is 
the  material  on  which  he  exercises  his  hand. 
Good-humoredly,  he  consults  its  intrinsic 
properties,  its  tints;  and,  appropriating  the 
soul  of  the  brute  thing,  he  constitutes  him- 
self its  interpreter.  Of  all  the  things  that 
he  might  say,  he  expresses  only  the  essential 

[128] 


HERE     AND     THERE 


and  significant  characteristics;  and,  merely 
making  a  few  shy  indications  here  and  there, 
leaves  to  the  paper  the  task  of  conceahng 
all  those  infinite  complexities  which  are 
implied  freely  because  they  are  taken  for 
granted.  It  is  a  frohc  of  certitude,  it  is 
caprice  with  restraint;  and  the  underlying 
idea,  snared  by  such  a  method  of  argument, 
imposes  itself  upon  us  with  an  insidious 
conviction. 

Now,  first  of  all,  to  speak  of  Color! 
We  note  that  the  Japanese  artist  has  re- 
duced his  palette  to  a  limited  number  of 
general  and  predetermined  tones.  He 
understands  that  the  beauty  of  a  color 
resides  less  in  its  intrinsic  quahty  than  in 
its  impHcit  accord  w^ith  contrasted  tones. 
And  because  of  the  unmodified  blending  of 
two  values  laid  on  in  equal  quantities,  he 
repairs  the  omission  of  the  many  intermedi- 
ate shades  by  the  vivacity  that  he  gives  to 
the  juxtaposition  of  the  essential  notes; 
calmly  indicating  one  repetition  or  two. 
He  knows  that  the  value  of  a  tone  results 
more  from  its  position  than  from  its  inten- 
sity; master  of  keys,  he  transposes  them  as 
he  will.  Furthermore,  as  color  is  nothing 
less  than  the  particular  homage  that  all 
visible  things  render  to  the  universal  fight, 
everything  fitly  takes  its  place  within  the 

[  129] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


frame  through  the  power  of  color,  in  accord 
with  the  theme  that  the  artist  has  chosen. 
But  now  the  roving  eye  remains  fixed; 
and,  instead  of  contemplating,  it  interro- 
gates. Color  is  the  passion  of  matter;  it 
signalizes  the  participation  of  each  object 
in  the  common  source  of  glory.  Design 
expresses  the  energy  proper  to  each  being; 
his  action,  his  rhythm,  his  postures.  The 
one  makes  manifest  his  relations  to  space, 
the  other  fixes  his  movement  in  time.  One 
gives  the  form,  the  other  gives  the  sense. 
And  as  the  Japanese,  careless  of  relief, 
paints  only  by  contour  and  mass,  the  chief 
characteristic  of  his  design  is  a  schematic 
stroke.  While  the  tones  are  in  contrast, 
the  hnes  are  in  unity;  and  while  the  paint- 
ing is  a  harmony,  the  design  is  an  idea; 
and  if  the  interpretation  of  this  idea  comes 
in  a  flash  of  recognition,  complete  and  in- 
stantaneous, the  design  has  a  satisfactory 
abstract  significance  and  expresses  the  idea 
in  all  its  purity,  just  as  well  as  might  a 
word  made  of  letters.  Each  form,  each 
movement,  each  group  furnishes  its  hiero- 

I  understand  this  when  I  revel  among 
these  bundles  of  Japanese  prints.  At  Shid- 
zuoka,  among  the  ex-votos  of  the  temple, 
I  have  seen  many  admirable  examples  of 

[130]     • 


HERE     AND     THERE 


this  art.  A  warrior  leaps  from  the  ver- 
milion wood  like  a  frantic  exclamation. 
This  prancing  or  kicking  thing  is  no  longer 
the  picture  of  a  horse,  but  the  symbol  of 
his  revolt  against  bondage;  a  sort  of  re- 
versed figure  6,  equipped  with  a  mane 
and  tail,  represents  his  repose  in  the  grass. 
Embraces,  battles,  landscapes,  crowds,  fitted 
into  a  small  space,  resemble  the  designs  on 
seals.  This  man  bursts  into  laughter;  and, 
falling,  he  no  longer  seems  a  man,  but 
immediately  becomes  his  own  character  in 
writing. 

With  horrible  and  careless  crudity,  the 
French  or  Enghsh  construct  barbarous 
barracks;  pitiless  toward  the  earth  they 
disfigure,  concerned  only  with  their  expan- 
sion, seizing  upon  all  possible  space  with 
their  eyes,  if  not  with  their  hands.  They 
exploit  a  view  as  they  would  a  waterfall. 
The  Oriental  knows  enough  to  flee  from 
vast  landscapes,  where  multifold  aspects 
and  divergent  lines  do  not  lend  themselves 
to  that  exquisite  co-ordination  between  the 
eye  and  the  view  which  alone  makes  a  so- 
journ possible  for  him.  His  home  is  not 
open  to  all  the  winds.  Choosing  a  retreat 
in  some  peaceful  valley,  his  care  is  to 
achieve  a  perfect  location  where  his  view 

[1311 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


composes  so  harmonious  a  landscape  that 
it  is  impossible  to  imagine  seeing  it  other- 
wise. His  eyes  furnish  him  with  all  the 
elements  of  happiness,  and  he  replaces 
furniture  with  open  windows.  Inside,  the 
art  of  the  painter,  ingeniously  tracing  his 
visions  upon  a  fictitiously  transparent  win- 
dow, multiphes  the  imaginary  openings. 
In  the  ancient  imperial  palace  that  I  visited, 
its  magnificent  and  movable  treasures  had 
been  carried  away,  and  there  remained  only 
the  pictorial  decorations  arranged  in  a 
black  room,  —  the  famihar  visions  of  its 
august  inhabitant. 

The  paper  dwelhng  is  composed  of  suc- 
cessive apartments,  divided  by  partitions 
which  shde  on  moldings.  A  single  theme 
of  decoration  has  been  chosen  for  each  of 
the  series,  and  it  is  introduced  by  screens 
similar  to  the  wings  of  a  theater.  I  can 
prolong  or  shorten  my  contemplation  at 
will.  I  am  less  the  spectator  of  the  painter 
than  his  host;  each  subject  is  expressed  by 
a  choice  in  harmony  with  the  tone  of  the 
paper,  a  color  representing  the  opposite 
end  of  the  gamut.  It  is  so  at  Gosho.  An 
indigo  and  cream  motif  suffices  for  the  room 
called  "Freshness  and  Purity,"  seeming 
all  filled  with  sky  and  water.  But  at  Nijo 
the   imperial    habitation    is    done   in    gold 

[  132] 


HERE     AND     THERE 


alone.  Emerging  from  the  matting-covered 
rafters,  painted  life-size,  crowns  of  the  pine- 
tree  extend  their  grotesque  boughs  along 
the  sunht  walls.  The  Prince,  upon  his 
seat,  saw  only  great  bands  of  tawny  fire; 
and  his  sensation  was  of  floating  on  the 
evening  sky  with  awful  sunset  fires  beneath 
him. 

At  Shidzuoka,  at  the  time  of  Rinzainji, 
I  saw  a  landscape  made  of  colored  dust. 
They  had  put  it  under  glass,  for  fear  that 
a  breath  would  blow  it  away. 

Before  the  golden  Buddha  in  the  leaves, 
time  is  measured  by  the  burning  of  a  Kttle 
candle;  and  in  the  depth  of  this  ravine,  by 
the  dripping  of  a  triple  fountain. 

Swept  away,  overthrown  in  the  chaos 
and  turmoil  of  the  incomprehensible  sea, 
lost  in  the  churning  abyss,  mortal  man  with 
all  his  strength  clutches  at  something  that 
may  prove  sohd  in  his  grasp.  That  is  why 
he  accords  the  permanence  of  wood,  metal, 
or  stone  to  the  human  figure,  and  makes 
it  the  object  of  his  devotion  and  his  prayer. 
Besides  their  common  names,  he  gives  proper 
names  to  the  forces  of  nature;  and,  by 
means  of  a  concrete  image  which  symbohzes 

[  133] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


them  like  a  syllable,  still  mysteriously  con- 
scious in  his  abasement  of  the  superior 
authority  of  the  Word,  he  calls  upon  it  in 
his  necessities.  Thus,  Hke  a  child  who 
constructs  the  history  of  his  doll  from  every- 
thing around  him,  humanity  in  its  memories 
unites  all  that  it  discovers  with  all  that  it 
dreams,  and  so  composes  the  romance  of 
mythology.  ^ 

Here  beside  me  is  this  poor  little  old 
woman,  who  makes  her  salutation  by 
striking  her  hands  carefully  together  before 
a  colossal  female  statue,  in  whose  bosom 
an  ancient  prince,  when  led  by  a  toothache 
and  a  dream  to  honor  the  skull  of  an  an- 
cestor, inserted  the  worn  sphere  after 
finding  it  wedged  by  the  jawbone  in  the 
roots  of  a  willow.  At  my  right  and  at  my 
left,  all  the  length  of  the  dark  cavern,  the 
three  thousand  golden  Kwannon,  each  one 
resembhng  the  others  in  the  embelhshment 
of  arms  that  frame  it,  are  ahgned  in  rows  of 
a  hundred,  in  ranks  fifteen  deep.  A  ray 
of  sunhght  flickers  over  this  barrier  built 
of  goddesses.  Seeking  the  reason  for  uni- 
formity in  this  multitude,  and  from  what 
bulb  afl  these  identical  stalks  have  sprung, 
I  find  that  the  worshiper  here  doubtless 
wishes  a  wider  sounding-board  for  his 
prayers,  and  imagines  that  in  multiplying 

[  134] 


HERE     AND     THERE 


the  object  of  his  entreaty  he  increases  its 
efficacy. 

But  not  for  long  did  the  sages  rest  their 
eyes  on  the  eyes  of  these  crude  hkenesses. 
Having  perceived  the  unity  of  all  things, 
they  found  the  basis  of  their  philosophy  in 
that  fact.  Though  each  individual  were 
transitory  and  capricious,  the  richness  of 
the  common  fund  remained  inexhaustible. 
No  need  that  Man  should  apply  his  hatchet 
to  the  tree,  or  his  cleaver  to  the  rock;  in 
the  grain  of  millet  and  the  egg,  ahke  in  the 
immobility  and  the  convulsions  of  sun  and 
sea,  he  found  the  same  principle  of  plastic 
energy;  and  the  earth  sufficed  for  the 
construction  of  its  own  idols.  Further, 
admitting  that  the  whole  is  formed  of 
homogeneous  parts;  if,  to  better  pursue 
their  analysis,  the  Sages  turned  it  back 
upon  themselves,  they  discovered  that  the 
fugitive,  blameworthy,  unjustifiable  thing 
in  them  was  the  fact  of  their  presence  in  the 
world,  —  and  that  the  element  in  them 
which  was  free  of  space  and  limitless  of 
duration  was  the  very  conception  they  had 
formed  of  this  contingent  character. 

If  a  diabohcal  fraud  had  not  led  them 
astray  at  that  point,  they  might  have 
recognized  in  the  harmony  of  this  principle 
of  independent   existence    (with   its    main 

[135] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


idea  common  to  all  and  its  expression  so 
varied)  a  faith  similar  to  that  in  the  Word, 
which  imphes  a  vow  —  the  voluntary  resti- 
tution of  breath  to  its  divine  Source.  For 
every  creature,  born  of  the  impression  of 
Divine  Unity  upon  indeterminate  matter, 
is  the  very  acknowledgment  that  he  makes 
to  his  Creator,  and  the  expression  of  the 
nothingness  from  which  he  has  been  drawn. 
This  is  the  hving,  breathing  rhythm  of  the 
world;  where  Man^  dowered  with  conscious- 
ness and  language,  has  been  instituted  their 
priest,  to  make  dedication  and  offering  of 
them,  —  and,  of  his  own  nothingness  united 
to  essential  grace,  to  make  a  fihal  gift  of 
himself,  through  love's  most  intimate  choice. 
But  these  bhnd  eyes  refused  to  recognize 
unconditional  being;  and  to  him  whom 
they  call  Buddha  was  it  given  to  perfect 
the  Pagan  blasphemy.  To  return  to  this 
comparison  of  the  Word;  from  the  moment 
that  they  ignored  the  object  of  the  dis- 
course, its  order  and  sequence  escaped  them 
entirely,  and  nothing  remained  but  the 
ravings  of  dehrium.  But  a  horror  of  that 
which  is  not  the  Absolute  is  essential  to 
man;  and  to  escape  the  frightful  circle  of 
your  vanity,  Buddha,  you  have  not  hesi- 
tated to  embrace  Nothingness !  For  instead 
of  explaining  all  things  by  their  final  end, 

[136] 


HERE     AND     THERE 


he  searched  in  himself  for  their  intrinsic 
principle;  and,  finding  there  only  nothing- 
ness, his  doctrine  teaches  this  n^onstrous 
communion. 

This  is  the  method;  that  the  Sage,  — 
having  banished  successively  from  his  mind 
the  ideas  of  form  and  of  space,  and  the  very 
idea  of  an  idea,  —  arrives  finally  at  Nothing- 
ness, and  so  enters  into  Nirvana.  And 
people  are  awed  by  this  revelation!  As 
for  me,  I  find  that  to  the  idea  of  Nothingness 
they  have  added  that  of  Enjoyment.  This 
seems  to  me  the  last  and  most  Satanic 
mystery;  the  silence  of  a  creature  in- 
trenched in  its  final  refusal,  the  incestuous 
quietude  of  a  soul  seated  on  its  integral 
difference ! 


[137] 


THE  SEDENTARY 

I  LIVE  in  a  corner  of  the  highest  story  of 
a  square  and  spacious  building.  I  have 
placed  my  bed  in  the  embrasure  of  the 
window;  and  when  the  evening,  like  the 
bride  of  a  god,  silently  mounts  her  couch, 
I  He  at  full  length  with  my  face  turned 
toward  the  night.  From  time  to  time, 
lifting  an  eyehd  heavy  as  if  in  death,  my 
sight  has  swum  in  a  rose-colored  glow.  But 
at  this  hour,  emerging  with  a  long  sigh  from 
a  sleep  as  heavy  as  Adam's,  I  awaken  to  a 
vision  of  gold.  The  hght  tissue  of  the 
mosquito  netting  waves  under  an  ineffable 
breeze.  Here  is  light  purged  of  heat;  and 
I  twist  slowly  in  the  dehcious  coolness.  If 
I  put  out  my  bare  arm,  it  seems  to  me 
fitting  to  plunge  it  to  the  shoulder  in  the 
consistency  of  this  glory,  to  sink  my  hand 
searchingly  into  the  fountain  of  eternity, 
as  tremulous  as  its  source.  I  see  the  mag- 
nificent lake  of  Hght  spread  with  an  irre- 
sistible intensity  in  a  sky  that  is  Hke  a 
concave  and  Hquid  basin  the  color  of 
mulberry  leaves.  Only  the  face  of  the  sun, 
and  its  insupportable  fires,  only  the  mortal 

[138] 


THE     SEDENTARY 


thrust  of  its  rays,  can  drive  me  from  my 
bed.  I  foresee  that  I  shall  have  to  pass 
the  day  in  fasting  and  detachment.  What 
water  will  be  pure  enough  to  quench  my 
thirst,  to  satisfy  my  heart?  From  what 
manner  of  fruit  shall  I  strip  the  skin  with  a 
golden  knife? 

But  when  the  sun  has  reached  the  zenith, 
followed  by  the  sea  as  is  a  shepherd,  and 
by  the  races  of  mankind  arising  in  succes- 
sive multitudes,  —  it  is  noon,  and  every- 
thing that  occupies  a  dimension  in  space  is 
enveloped  by  the  soul  of  a  fire  whiter  than 
hghtning.  The  world  is  effaced  and  the 
seals  of  the  furnace  broken;  all  things  have 
vanished  in  the  heart  of  this  new  deluge. 
I  have  closed  all  the  windows.  Prisoner 
of  the  hght,  I  take  up  the  journal  of  my 
captivity.  And  now,  with  my  hand  on 
the  paper,  I  write  by  the  same  impulse 
that  moves  the  silkworm,  who  spins  its 
thread  of  the  leaf  that  it  devours.  Some- 
times I  stroll  through  the  darkened  room, 
through  the  dining-room  or  the  parlor;  or 
for  a  moment  I  rest  my  hand  on  the  cover 
of  the  organ,  in  this  bare  space  whose 
center  the  work-table  fills,  standing  intrepid 
and  alone.  Surrounded  by  these  white 
streaks  that  mark  the  fissures  in  my  prison, 
I  develop  the  thought  of  holocaust.     Ah, 

[  139] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


if  it  is  enviable  to  dissolve  in  a  flaming 
embrace,  swept  away  upon  a  whirlwind 
with  vehement  breath,  —  how  much  more 
beautiful  the  torture  of  a  spirit  devoured 
by  light! 

And,  when  the  afternoon  is  filled  with 
this  burning  softness,  by  which  the  evening 
is  preceded,  like  the  sentiment  of  pa- 
ternal love;  having  purified  my  body  and 
my  mind,  I  remount  to  the  highest  room. 
Seizing  an  inexhaustible  book,  I  pursue 
there  the  study  of  Being,  the  definition  of 
person  and  substance,  of  qualities  and 
possibiHties. 

Between  two  rows  of  houses,  the  glimpse 
of  a  river  terminates  my  street;  the  enor- 
mous silver  current  smokes,  and  great 
ships  with  white  sails  move  across  the 
splendid  gap  with  a  smooth  and  superb 
grace.  I  see  before  me  the  very  River  of 
Life  whose  image  I  borrowed  when  a  child, 
to  discourse  of  Morahty.  But  today,  stub- 
born swimmer  though  I  am,  I  no  longer 
cherish  any  hope  of  landing  flat  on  my  face 
among  the  reeds  in  the  shme  of  the  other 
bank,  under  the  sahitation  of  the  palms, 
in  a  silence  interrupted  only  by  the  cry 
of  a  parrot.  Although  the  shrifl  cascade 
invites  me,  drumming  upon  the  gravel 
behind  the  fleshy  foHage  of  the  magnolia; 

[  140] 


THE     SEDENTARY 


although  the  fabulous  boughs  are  bending 
beneath  their  weight  of  myrobalans  and  of 
pomegranates;  I  will  think  of  them  no  more 
—  turning  my  glance  to  a  more  angehc 
science,  to  this  mystic  garden  which  is 
offered  for  my  enjoyment  and  my  recreation ! 


[  141  ] 


THE    EARTH   VIEWED    FROM   THE 
SEA 

ARRIVING  from  the  horizon,  our  ship 
is  confronted  by  the  wharf  of  the 
Earth;  and  the  continent,  emerging,  spreads 
its  immense  architecture  out  before  us. 
In  the  morning  distinguished  by  one  great 
star,  as  I  mount  the  gangway  the  earth's 
blue  apparition  appears  before  my  eyes.  To 
defend  the  sun  against  the  pursuit  of  the 
restless  ocean,  this  continent  has  estabhshed 
the  deep-set  solidity  of  its  ramparts.  Their 
breaches  open  into  a  happy  countryside. 

For  a  long  time  in  the  full  dayhght  we 
follow  the  frontier  of  another  world.  Car- 
ried along  by  the  trade-winds,  our  ship 
veers  and  rebounds  upon  the  resilient  abyss 
to  which  it  confides  its  whole  weight.  I 
am  caught  up  to  the  Azure,  I  am  stuck 
there  like  a  cask.  Captive  of  the  infinite, 
suspended  at  the  intersection  of  sky  and 
water,  I  see  below  me  all  the  somber  Earth 
laid  out  hke  a  chart  —  the  whole  world, 
humble  and  enormous!  My  separation 
from  it  is  irrevocable.  All  things  are  far 
from  me,  and  only  sight  connects  me  with 

[  142] 


EARTH  VIEWED  FROM  THE  SEA 

them.  It  will  never  again  be  vouchsafed 
me  to  set  my  foot  on  the  solid  earth,  to 
construct  with  my  hands  a  dwelhng  of  wood 
and  stone,  to  eat  in  peace  food  cooked  at 
the  domestic  fire.  Soon  we  will  turn  our 
prow  toward  the  shoreless  sea;  and,  under 
an  immense  spread  of  sail,  our  advance  into 
the  midst  of  eternity  will  be  shown  only 
by  our  signal  lights. 


[  143] 


SALUTATION 

AND  again  I  am  permitted  to  salute 
this  land  similar  to  Gessen  and 
Canaan.  Tonight,  as  our  ship  tossed  in  the 
wheat-colored  moonhght,  at  the  entrance 
to  the  river,  what  a  sign  the  Dog-Star  was 
to  me,  low  beyond  the  sea;  the  golden 
watchman  at  the  foot  of  a  stretch  of  stars, 
glowing  splendor  at  the  far  horizon !  These 
flowing  waters  having  led  us  into  the  heart 
of  the  countryside,  I  disembark,  and  on 
my  road  I  see  below  me  the  image  of  the 
round  sun  repeated  in  the  fields,  ruddy  in 
the  green  rice. 

It  is  neither  cold,  nor  too  warm.  All 
nature  has  the  warmth  of  my  body.  How 
the  feeble  cry  of  these  crickets  touches  me! 
At  this  end  of  the  season,  in  this  testa- 
mentary moment,  the  union  of  the  sky  and 
the  earth  (less  sacramental  today  than  it 
is  amorous)  consummates  the  matrimonial 
solemnity. 

O  cruel  destiny!  Is  repose  always  apart 
from  me?  Is  there  no  peace  for  the  heart 
of  man?  A  spirit  born  for  one  only  joy 
can  pardon  no  delay.     Absolute  possession 

[  144] 


SALUTATION 


some  day  will  not  dry  my  tears!  No  joy 
of  mine  will  be  sufficient  to  make  reparation 
for  the  bitterness  of  this  grief. 

And  I  will  salute  this  earth;  not  only 
with  a  frivolous  jet  of  intricate  phrases, 
but  with  the  sudden  discovery  in  me  of  an 
immense  discourse  circKng  the  foot  of  the 
mountain  hke  that  sea  of  wheat  crossed  by 
a  triple  river.  Like  that  plain  and  its  roads, 
I  fill  the  space  between  the  mountains. 
With  both  eyes  fifted  toward  the  eternal 
mountains,  I  salute  the  venerable  body  of 
the  earth.  Through  the  air  I  no  longer 
see  its  mere  semblance,  but  its  very  flank, 
the  gigantic  assemblage  of  its  Hmbs.  O 
borders  of  the  slope  all  about  me!  It  is 
through  you  that  we  receive  the  waters  of 
the  sky,  and  you  are  the  recipients  of  the 
Off'ering! 

This  damp  morning,  at  the  turn  of  the 
road  between  the  tomb  and  the  tree,  I  saw 
the  somber  and  enormous  hill  barred  at 
the  foot  by  the  flashing  fine  of  a  river, 
which  stood  out  hke  a  stream  of  milk  in 
the  fight  of  noon. 

Like  a  body  sinking  through  water  of 
its  own  weight,  during  these  four  motion- 
less hours  I  have  been  advancing  to  the 
heart  of  the  fight,  feefing  a  divine  resistance. 
I  am  holding  myself  erect  in  perfectly  white 

[  145  1 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 

air.  While  I  cast  no  shadow,  I  am  cele- 
brating the  orgy  of  the  maturity  of  day. 

No  longer,  under  the  sudden  brilliance 
of  a  greedy  sun,  does  the  earth  burst  into 
violent  flowering.  Lustral  moment!  A 
continual  breath  blows  to  us  from  between 
the  Orient  and  the  North.  The  opulent 
harvest,  the  trees  weighed  down  with  their 
burdens,  stir  ceaselessly  under  the  soft 
irresistible  wind.  The  fruits  of  the  great 
earth  are  stirred  in  the  purifying  splendor. 
The  sky  is  no  longer  high  above  us;  brought 
low,  it  submerges  and  damps  us.  I,  a  new 
Hylas  (like  one  who  watches  fishes  below 
him  suspended  in  watery  spaces)  see  through 
this  milkiness,  this  silver  wherein  I  am 
drowned,  a  dazzKng  white  bird  with  a  pink 
throat  flash  into  sight  and  lose  itself  in  a 
brifliance  that  my  eye  cannot  sustain. 

The  whole  day  does  not  exhaust  my 
salutation.  At  the  somber  hour,  —  when 
the  wedding  procession,  armed  with  flam- 
ing torches,  conducts  the  bridal  carriage 
through  the  forest  of  orange  trees,  with  all 
my  being  I  Hft  applause  and  acclamation 
toward  the  red  Sign  I  see  upraised  above 
the  wild  circle  of  flaming  mountains. 

I  salute  the  threshold,  the  material  evi- 
dence of  Hope,  the  recompense  of  man 
uncompromised;  I  hft  my  hands  toward  this 

[146] 


SALUTATION 


exposition  of  the  color  of  life  I  Autumnal 
triumph,  the  foliage  above  my  head  is 
thick  with  Httle  oranges!  But  once  again 
my  gaze,  which  has  been  uplifted  toward 
Death  from  infancy,  must  return  to  man- 
kind; hke  the  singer  who,  with  parted  lips, 
waits  to  carry  on  his  part  —  his  heart  lost 
in  the  beat  of  the  music,  his  eye  on  his  score. 


[  147] 


THE  HANGING  HOUSE 

BY  a  subterranean  stairway  I  descend 
to  the  hanging  house.  Just  as  the 
swallow  fashions  her  shelter  with  patience, 
between  the  planks  and  the  rafter,  and  the 
seagull  glues  her  nest  hke  a  pannier  to  the 
rock;  so,  by  a  system  of  clamps,  bolts, 
and  girders  driven  into  the  stone,  the 
wooden  box  that  I  inhabit  is  soHdIy  attached 
to  the  arch  of  an  enormous  porch  hollowed 
in  the  mountain  itself.  A  trap-door  ar- 
ranged in  the  floor  connects  me  with  the 
world;  by  means  of  it  on  both  these  days, 
letting  my  Httle  basket  drop  at  the  end  of  a 
cord,  I  have  drawn  it  up  filled  with  a  little 
rice,  some  roasted  pistachio  nuts,  and  vege- 
tables pickled  in  brine.  In  a  corner  of  the 
formidable  masonry,  like  a  trophy  made  of 
Medusa's  tresses,  hangs  a  fountain  whose 
inexhaustible  lament  is  carried  away  in  a 
whirlpooL  I  draw  up  the  water  I  need  by 
means  of  a  cord  knotted  in  open  meshes, 
and  the  smoke  of  my  cooking  mingles  with 
the  spray  of  the  cascade. 

The  torrent  is  lost  among  the  Palms, 
and  I  see  below  me  the  crowns  of  the  great 
trees  from  which  they  draw  sacerdotal 
perfumes.     And,  as  a  shattering  of  crystal 

[148] 


THE     HANGING     HOUSE 

is  enough  to  disturb  the  night,  all  the  key- 
board of  the  earth  is  awakened  by  this 
neutral,  hollow  jingling  of  rain  on  that 
deep  flint. 

I  see  in  the  monstrous  niche  where  I  am 
ensconced  the  very  tympanum  of  the  mass- 
ive mountain,  like  an  ear  hollowed  in  the 
temporal  rock.  And,  collecting  all  my 
attention,  bending  all  my  joints,  I  will 
attempt  to  hear,  above  the  murmur  of 
leaves  and  birds,  those  sounds  which  this 
enormous  and  secret  pavilion  undoubtedly 
gives  access  to:  the  oscillations  of  the  uni- 
versal waters,  the  shifting  of  geological 
strata,  the  groans  of  the  hurtling  earth  under 
an  eff"ort  contrary  to  gravitation. 

Once  a  year  the  moon  rises  at  my  left 
above  this  escarpment,  cutting  the  shadows 
at  the  height  of  my  waist  on  so  exact  a 
level  that,  with  ever  so  little  more  delicacy 
and  precaution,  I  could  float  a  plate  of 
copper  upon  it.  But  I  like  best  the  last 
step  of  the  stairway,  which  descends  into 
the  void.  Many  times  I  have  awakened 
from  meditation,  bathed  in  the  dews  of 
the  night  like  a  rose-bush;  or,  in  the  com- 
fortable afternoon,  I  have  appeared  to  throw 
handfuls  of  dry  letches  like  little  red  bells 
to  the  monkeys  perched  below  me  on  the 
furthest  branches. 

[  149] 


THE  SPRING 

THE  crow,  adjusting  one  eye  on  me  as 
the  clock-maker  does  on  his  watch, 
would  see  me,  a  precise,  miniature  person 
—  a  cane  like  a  dart  between  my  fingers  — 
advancing  by  the  straight  footpath,  moving 
briskly  along. 

The  country,  between  the  mountains 
that  enclose  it,  is  as  flat  as  the  bottom  of 
a  frying-pan.  To  right  and  left  the  work 
of  harvesting  goes  on;  they  shear  the  earth 
as  if  it  were  a  sheep.  I  dispute  the  width 
of  the  path,  and  my  place  on  it,  with  an 
uninterrupted  file  of  workers;  those  who 
are  going  to  the  fields,  spade  at  belt;  those 
who  are  returning,  bending  hke  scales  under 
the  weight  of  double  baskets  whose  form 
is  at  once  round  and  square,  joining  the 
symbols  of  the  earth  and  the  sky. 

I  walk  a  long  time;  the  open  air  is  as 
close  as  a  room,  the  sky  is  somber,  and  the 
long  columns  of  stagnant  smoke  are  sta- 
tionary Hke  the  remains  of  some  barbaric 
pyre.  I  leave  the  shorn  rice-fields  and  the 
harvest-fields  of  shme;  and,  fittle  by  little, 
I  mount  the  narrowing  gorge.  Useless 
[  150] 


THE     SPRING 


reeds  succeed  the  fields  of  sugar-cane; 
and  three  times,  with  shoes  in  hands,  I 
cross  the  rapid  waters  gathered  into  the 
Current  of  a  river.  I  have  undertaken  to 
find  the  source  of  one  of  these  streams  that 
feed  the  river,  here,  where  it  arises  in  the 
heart  of  a  five-gorged  valley.  The  ascent 
becomes  more  difficult  as  the  thread  of  the 
cascade  extends.  I  leave  beneath  me  the 
last  field  of  potatoes,  and,  all  at  once,  I 
have  entered  into  a  wood  hke  that  which 
on  Parnassus  served  for  the  assembly  of  the 
Muses!  All  about  me  the  tea-plants  hft 
their  distorted  shoots  and  their  dry,  somber 
fohage,  —  so  high  that  my  stretched  hand 
cannot  reach  it.  Charming  retreat! 
Quaint  and  mysterious  shadow,  enameled 
with  a  perpetual  flowering!  A  dehcate 
perfume,  which  seems  to  survive  rather 
than  emanate,  flatters  the  nostril  while 
recreating  the  spirit.  And  in  a  hoHow  I 
discover  the  spring!  Like  grain  out  of  a 
furious  hopper  the  water  from  beneath  the 
earth  bursts  forth,  leaping  and  bubbhng. 
Impurities  are  absorbed.  Only  that  which 
is  pure,  untainted  at  the  source,  leaps  out. 
Born  of  the  roseate  sky  (gathered  in  what 
profound  matrix!)  the  virgin  water,  with 
living  force,  pours  from  the  opening  hke  a 
cry.     Happy  those  from  whom  a  new  word 

[151] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


bursts  with  violence!  May  my  mouth  be 
supplied  forever  like  this  spring,  —  which, 
sustained  by  a  perpetual,  solitary  renewal, 
cares  not  that  it  must  serve  for  the  works 
of  Man,  —  for  those  lowlands  where,  spread- 
ing wide  and  inundating  the  tilth,  it  will 
nourish  the  vast,  stagnant  harvest-fields. 


[  152] 


THE  TIDE  AT  NOON 

WHEN  the  time  comes  that  he  can  sail 
no  longer,  the  mariner  makes  his 
home  near  the  sea;  and  when  it  moans  he 
rises  to  watch,  unable  to  sleep  longer;  like 
a  nurse  who  hears  a  little  child  complain 
in  the  night. 

I  do  likewise,  and,  by  the  living  virtue 
of  the  sea  in  my  blood,  my  mind  communi- 
cates with  the  movement  of  the  waters  as 
does  a  city  by  its  secret  drains. 

While  I  am  speaking  or  writing,  resting 
or  eating,  I  participate  in  the  sea,  which 
rises  toward  or  recedes  from  me.  And 
often  at  noon,  temporary  citizen  of  this 
commercial  coast,  I  gaze  on  what  the  tide 
brings  us :  the  tribute  of  the  ocean  gathered 
into  this  flowing  channel  in  one  wide  cur- 
rent of  yellow  water. 

I  observe  the  approach  of  all  the  people 
of  the  sea,  the  procession  of  ships  towed 
by  the  tide  as  if  on  the  chain  of  a  barge, 
the  junks  with  their  four  bulging  sails  as 
smooth  and  stiff  as  blades,  in  a  puff  of  wind. 
Those  from  Foutcheou  carry  an  enormous 
fagot  of  beams  lashed  to  each  side;    then, 

[153] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


among  a  scattering  of  tricolored  sampans, 
come  the  giants  of  Europe,  the  American 
sailing  ships  full  of  gasoline;  all  the 
"camels"  of  Madian,  all  the  cargoes  of 
Hamburg  and  London,  all  the  carriers  of 
the  Coast  and  the  Islands. 

The  air  is  very  clear.  I  enter  into  a  light 
so  pure  that  neither  my  secret  conscience, 
it  seems,  nor  my  body,  offer  resistance  to 
it.  It  is  deliciously  cool.  With  closed 
mouth,  I  breathe  the  sunHght,  my  nostrils 
open  to  the  exhilarating  air.  Meanwhile 
noon  sounds  from  the  tower  of  the  Customs ; 
the  ball  of  the  semaphore  drops,  all  the 
boats  mark  off  the  hour,  cannon  thunder, 
the  Angelus  rings  its  part,  the  whistles  of 
the  factories  mingle  with  the  long  tumult 
of  the  siren. 

All  humanity  gathers  together  to  eat;  the 
sampan  man  at  the  stern  of  his  skiff,  Hfting 
a  wooden  cover,  surveys  with  a  contented 
eye  the  simmering  of  his  stew.  The  wharf- 
hands,  tied  up  in  thick  bundles  of  rags,  each 
yoke  carried  over  the  shoulder  Hke  a  pike, 
surround  the  open-air  kitchen;  those  who 
are  already  served,  all  laughing,  seated  on 
the  edges  of  the  wheelbarrows,  with  bowls 
of  smoking  rice  between  their  hands,  test 
the  heat  with  the  ends  of  their  greedy 
tongues. 

[  154] 


THE     TIDE     AT     NOON 

The  regulator  of  Life's  level  rises;  all 
the  sluices  of  the  earth  are  filled ;  the  rivers 
suspend  their  course;  and  the  sea,  min- 
ghng  her  salt  with  their  sands,  joins  them, 
to  drink  fully  at  their  mouths.  It  is  the 
hour  of  plenitude.  Now  the  tortuous  canals 
which  cross  the  city  become  long  serpents 
of  close-packed  barges  advancing  amid 
vociferations;  and  the  irresistible  waters, 
in  their  expansion,  float  bridges  of  boats 
and  dead  bodies  from  the  mud,  like  corks. 


[  ^55] 


THE  PERIL  OF  THE  SEA 

AS  I  cannot  eat,  I  remount  to  the  poop, 
a  piece  of  bread  in  my  pocket;  and, 
staggering,  deafened,  blown  about,  I  join 
in  the  wild  darkness  and  the  indescribable 
confusion  of  noise.  In  this  void,  opening 
my  lips,  I  carry  a  mouthful  blindly  to  them. 
Soon,  leaving  the  binnacle,  httle  by  httle 
I  can  make  out  the  form  of  the  ship,  and 
beyond.  Just  at  the  hmit  of  the  contracted 
horizon,  the  sea  in  the  clutches  of  the  wind. 
In  that  black  circle,  I  see  the  pale  charging 
cavalry  of  the  foam. 

Nowhere  about  me  is  there  solidity.  I 
stand  amid  chaos.  I  am  lost  in  the  inner 
caverns  of  Death.  My  heart  is  grasped 
by  the  bitterness  of  the  last  hour.  This 
is  no  menace  brandished  at  me;  it  is  simply 
that  I  have  intruded  into  the  uninhabitable. 
I  am  of  no  importance.  I  am  voyag- 
ing through  an  indifferent  element.  I  am 
at  the  mercy  of  the  moods  of  the  deep,  of 
the  mind,  of  the  powers  of  the  abyss.  In 
the  cataclysm  that  surrounds  me,  no  com- 
pact holds;  and  the  handful  of  human 
souls  which  this  narrow  vessels  contains, 

1 156] 


THE     PERIL     OF     THE     SEA 

may  be  scattered  over  the  waters  like  a 
basket  of  bran.  A  delicate  balance  sus- 
tains me  on  the  bosom  of  this  abyss  which 
is  ready  to  join  with  my  own  weight  and 
engulf  me. 

To  escape  this  disheartening  sight,  I 
go  to  my  cabin  and  to  bed.  Head  to  the 
wind,  the  boat  hfts  to  the  surge;  and  every 
once  in  a  while  the  enormous  hull,  with 
its  iron  plate  and  boilers,  its  armament  and 
storerooms  filled  with  coal  and  projectiles, 
settles  back  upon  the  waves  hke  a  rider 
who  gathers  himself,  gripping  tightly  with 
his  knees,  before  a  leap. 

Then  a  little  calm  comes,  and  below  me 
I  hear  the  screw  continue  its  feeble  and 
homely  sound. 

But  before  the  day  which  follows  is  ended, 
our  ship  enters  the  lonely  port  enclosed  like 
a  reservoir  by  a  mountain  range.  Here  is 
Life  again!  Touched  with  an  artless  joy, 
I  may  resume  my  survey  of  the  brisk  and 
lively  spectacle,  of  the  spontaneous  play  of 
common  interests,  of  this  assiduous,  multi- 
fold, intermingled  activity  by  which  all 
things  exist  together. 

Just  as  we  drop  anchor,  the  sun,  through 
a  gap  in  the  mountains  which  hide  it, 
shoots  toward  the  earth  four  jets  of  fire  so 
intense   that   they   seem   emissions   of  its 

[  157] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 

very  substance.  Before  raising  them  verti- 
cally to  the  illimitable  sky,  this  king,  appear- 
ing upon  the  highest  ridge  (Eye  of  our 
eyes,  in  the  merciful  possession  of  the  Vision 
made  visible!)  makes,  at  this  supreme  hour, 
a  majestic  exposition  of  distance  and  origin. 
For  a  welcome  I  have  this  farewell,  richer 
than  a  promise!  The  mountain  is  vestured 
in  rose  and  violet,  the  marriage  of  light  and 
night.  I  am  overcome  w^th  a  deep,  strong 
sweetness.  I  Hft  to  God  my  gratitude  still 
to  be  alive,  and  my  whole  being  expands 
in  the  realization  of  my  reprieve. 

This  time  I  shall  not  drink  the  bitter 
waters  I 


[158] 


ON  LIGHT 

I  DO  not  think  —  I  entirely  reject  the 
idea  that  colors  constitute  the  first 
element,  and  that  the  sun  is  only  the 
synthesis  of  their  spectrum.  I  cannot  see 
that  the  sun  may  be  white,  and  that  each 
color  gives  a  share  of  its  own  virtue  to  it, 
and  that  their  accord  determines  it.  There 
is  no  color  without  an  extrinsic  support; 
from  which  we  learn  that  it  is  itself  an 
exterior  thing,  the  diverse  witness  that 
matter  renders  to  the  pure  source  of  in- 
divisible splendor.  Do  not  pretend  to 
separate  fight;  since  it  is  fight  which  divides 
darkness,  producing  seven  notes  according 
to  the  intensity  of  its  effort.  A  vase  of 
water  or  a  prism,  by  the  interposition  of  a 
transparent  and  thick  medium  and  the 
refractive  play  of  facets,  afiows  us  to  watch 
this  in  the  act.  The  free  direct  ray  remains 
invariable,  but  color  appears  as  soon  as 
there  is  a  captured  refraction,  which  matter 
takes  to  itself  as  an  especial  attribute. 
The  prism,  in  the  calculated  dispersive 
powers  of  its  three  angles  and  the  concerted 

[  159  1 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


action  of  its  dihedral  triple  mirror,  encloses 
all  possible  play  of  reflections,  and  restores 
to  the  light  its  equivalent  in  color.  I  com- 
pare light  to  a  woven  substance,  —  where 
the  rays  constitute  the  warp,  and  where 
the  wave  of  color,  always  implying  a 
repercussion,  is  the  woof.  Color  is  nothing 
more  than  that. 

If  I  examine  the  rainbow  or  the  spectrum 
projected  on  a  wall,  I  see  a  gradation  in  the 
nature  of  the  tints,  as  well  as  in  their  rela- 
tive intensity.  Yellow  occupies  the  center 
of  the  spectrum  and  permeates  it  to  each 
edge,  where  the  outer  tones  exclude  it  by 
degrees  of  obscuration.  We  can  under- 
stand it  to  be  the  most  immediate  veil  of 
light,  while  red  and  blue  are  reciprocal 
images  of  light  metamorphized  into  two 
equally  balanced  tones.  Light  plays  the 
role  of  mediator;  it  prepares  the  mixed 
colors  by  blending  them  in  neighboring 
bands,  thus  provoking  complementary 
tones.  In  it  and  by  it,  extreme  red  com- 
bined with  green  —  as  blue  combines  with 
orange  —  disappears  in  the  unity  of  white. 

Color,  then,  is  a  particular  phenomenon 
of  reflection,  which  the  reflecting  body, 
penetrated  by  the  light,  appropriates  and 
restores  in  an  altered  form.  This  form  is 
the  result  of  the  ray's  complete  and  ruthless 
[i6o] 


ON     LIGHT 


analysis  and  examination  which  will  not  be 
denied. 

And  the  intensity  of  tones  varies,  follow- 
ing a  gamut  of  which  yellow  is  the  keynote, 
according  to  the  more  or  less  complete 
response  of  matter  to  the  sohcitations  of 
the  hght. 

Who  would  not  be  shocked  with  the 
affirmation  of  the  classic  theory  that  the 
color  of  an  object  results  from  its  absorption 
of  all  the  colored  rays  except  that  one  whose 
livery  it  seems  to  wear?  On  the  contrary, 
I  should  think  that  color,  which  constitutes 
the  visible  individuahty  of  each  thing,  is 
an  original  and  authentic  quahty  in  it; 
and  that  the  color  of  the  rose  is  no  less  its 
property  than  the  perfume. 

That  which  we  measure  is  not  the  rapidity 
of  light,  but  simply  the  resistance  that  its 
surroundings  oppose  to  it,  while  trans- 
forming it. 

^  And  visibility  itself  is  only  one  of  the 

properties  of  light;  differing  with  different 
subjects. 


[i6i] 


HOURS  IN  THE  GARDEN 

THERE  are  people  whose  eyes  alone  are 
sensitive  to  light;  and  to  them,  for 
the  most  part,  the  sun  is  but  a  free  lantern, 
by  whose  hght  every  one  carries  on  his  es- 
pecial work;  the  writer  with  his  pen,  the 
farmer  with  his  ox.  But  I  absorb  the  hght 
with  my  eyes  and  ears,  my  mouth  and 
nose,  and  all  the  pores  of  my  skin.  Like 
a  fish,  I  float  in  it  and  I  drink  it  in. 

Just  as  they  say  the  fires  of  morning  and 
afternoon  will  ripen  wine  that  is  exposed  in 
bottles,  as  though  it  were  still  the  grapes 
on  the  vine;  so  the  sunhght  penetrates  my 
blood  and  clears  my  brain.  Rejoice  in 
this  tranquil  and  piercing  hour!  I  am  hke 
seaweed  in  the  current,  moored  only  by  a 
thread,  its  weight  floating  on  the  water,  — 
or  hke  the  Austrahan  palm;  a  tuft  with 
great  swaying  leaves,  high  upon  a  tall 
trunk,  —  which  last,  flecked  with  the  gold 
of  evening,  curl,  wave,  and  uncurl  with 
the  outspread  balance  of  wide  and  supple 
wings. 

The  formidable  aloe  sprang,  undoubtedly, 
from  one  of  the  dragon's  teeth  that  Cadmus 

[162] 


HOURS     IN     THE     GARDEN 

sowed  over  the  Theban  field.  The  sun 
drew  this  warrior  from  a  ferocious  soil. 
It  has  a  heart  of  sword-blades,  a  flowering 
of  glaucous  thongs,  belts,  and  straps.  Sen- 
tinel of  sohtude,  color  of  the  sea  and  the 
sword,  its  artichoke  bristles  on  all  sides 
with  enormous  poniards.  Persistently  it 
upraises  its  harrows,  rank  after  rank,  until, 
having  flowered,  it  dies;  and  from  its  heart 
springs  a  flower  like  a  post,  like  a  candelabra, 
like  a  standard  driven  into  the  final  corpse! 

By  my  order  they  have  closed  the  door 
with  bolt  and  bar.  The  porter  sleeps  in 
his  corner,  his  head  sunk  on  his  breast; 
afl  the  servants  sleep.  Only  a  pane  of 
glass  separates  me  from  the  garden;  and 
the  silence  is  so  complete  that,  all  the  way 
to  the  waHs  of  the  enclosure,  the  mice 
between  two  floors,  the  flee  in  the  breasts 
of  the  pigeons,  the  bubble  of  a  dandehon 
on  its  fragile  stem,  must  feel  the  noise  in 
their  midst  as  I  open  the  door.  The 
celestial  spaces  appear  to  me,  with  the  sun 
just  where  I  had  imagined  it,  in  the  after- 
noon splendor.  On  high,  a  kite  descends 
in  wide  circles  through  the  blue;  from  the 
summit  of  a  pine  a  cone  faHs.  I  am  glad 
to  be  where  I  am.  My  walks  in  this 
enclosed  place  are  distinguished  by  pre- 
caution and  a  taciturn  and  quiet  vigilance, 

[  163  ] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


—  as  a  fisher  fears  to  startle  fish  in  the  water 
if  he  so  much  as  thinks.  There  is  no  trace 
here  of  that  free  and  open  country  which 
distracts  the  mind  and  leads  on  the  body. 
The  trees  and  the  flowers  conspire  to  my 
captivity;  and,  as  in  a  child's  game  the 
player  must  continually  go  back  and  begin 
again,  so  all  the  turns  in  this  thick  grass 
lead  me  to  that  furthest  corner,  where  the 
wells  are.  Across  the  Httle  hill,  by  means 
of  a  long  cord,  I  shake  the  invisible  pail. 
Like  a  ripening  fruit,  like  a  poet  maturing 
his  thought,  I  rest  in  the  imm.obihty  all 
about  me  where  fife  is  measured  only  by 
the  circhng  of  the  sun,  by  the  beating  of 
my  pulse,  —  by  the  growth  of  my  hair. 
Vainly  the  turtle-dove  makes  her  pure  and 
sad  appeal,  heard  from  afar.  I  will  not 
stir  from  the  house  today.  In  vain  the 
murmur  of  the  great  river  reaches  me. 

At  midnight,  returning  from  a  ball  where, 
during  many  hours,  I  have  watched  human 
beings,  —  some  in  black,  others  in  quainter 
draperies,  —  turning  in  couples  (each  figure 
expressing  incomprehensible  satisfaction)  to 
the  gymnastic  modulations  of  a  piano;  at 
the  moment  when  the  porters  who  have 
reached  the  top  of  the  stairway  lift  the 
curtain  of  my  litter,  I  see  in  the  fight  of 
my   lantern,  under   the    torrential   rain,  a 

[164] 


HOURS     IN     THE     GARDEN 

magnolia  tree  adorned  with  great  ivory- 
globes.  Oh,  fresh  apparition!  Oh,  confir- 
mation of  imperishable  treasure  in  the  night! 

The  theme  of  the  earth  is  expressed  by 
the  detonations  of  this  distant  drum,  as 
one  might  hear  a  cooper  in  a  cavernous 
cellar  striking  his  casks  with  measured 
blows.  The  magnificence  of  the  world  is 
such  that  one  anticipates  at  any  moment 
having  the  silence  shattered  by  the  terrific 
explosion  of  a  cry,  the  taraba  of  a  trumpet, 
—  the  dehrious  exultation,  the  intoxicated 
elation  of  copper!  The  news  goes  about 
that  the  rivers  have  reversed  their  courses; 
and,  charging  the  swollen  streams,  all  the 
battering  force  of  the  sea  descends  upon 
the  island  continent,  to  trade  there  the 
produce  of  the  horizon.  The  work  of  the 
fields  benefits  by  this  change;  chain-pumps 
function  and  confabulate;  and,  as  far  as 
the  inundated  harvest-meadows,  mingled 
with  the  somber  prairie,  mirror  the  guava- 
colored  evening,  all  space  is  filled  with  an 
hydraulic  murmur.  A  ragged  tuft  of  pine 
crosses  the  circle  of  the  moon.  In  another 
place,  at  this  most  shining  hour,  four 
lovers  holding  a  sugar-cane,  stamping  on 
the  golden  wheels  of  a  press,  make  a  stream 
of  blue  and  white  milk  flow  Hke  the  water 

[  165  ] 


THE      EAST      I      KNOW 

of  the  sea  through  a  very  green  field.  And 
suddenly,  against  the  blue,  is  thrust  this 
young  Bacchic  face,  inflamed  with  passion 
and  with  a  superhuman  gaiety,  the  eye 
sparkhng  and  cynical,  the  hps  twisted  in 
mockery  and  invective!  But  the  heavy 
blows  of  a  hatchet  in  meat  show  me  clearly 
enough  where  I  am;  and  also  the  arms  of 
this  woman  who,  red  to  the  elbows  with 
blood  dark  as  tobacco  juice,  drags  out 
entrails  from  the  depth  of  that  great  pearl- 
white  carcass.  A  basin  of  iron,  that  some 
one  turns  over,  flashes.  In  the  rosy  and 
golden  light  of  Autumn,  the  whole  bank  of 
the  canal  is  screened  from  my  sight  under 
pufleys  which  draw  great  blocks  of  ice, 
baskets  of  pigs,  unwieldy  bunches  of 
bananas,  streaming  clusters  of  oysters,  hke 
pudding-stones,  —  and  barrels  of  edible 
fishes  so  large  that  they  are  garnished  and 
pohshed  Hke  porcelain.  I  have  the  energy 
stiH  to  notice  these  scales,  where,  with  one 
foot  placed  on  the  platform,  one  fist  chnging 
to  the  chain  of  bronze,  they  overturn  the 
mighty  heap  of  watermelons  and  pumpkins, 
and  bundles  of  sugar-cane,  tied  with  blos- 
soming creepers  from  which  spring  tiny 
lip-coIored  flowers.  And  suddenly,  lifting 
my  chin,  I  find  myself  seated  on  a  step  of 
the  stair^vay,  my  hand  in  the  fur  of  my  cat. 
[i66] 


THE  BRAIN 

THE  brain  is  an  organ.  The  student  will 
acquire  a  solid  principle  if  he  grasps 
this  idea  firmly :  that  the  nervous  organism 
is  homogeneous  in  its  center  and  jn  its  rami- 
fications, and  that  its  function  is  simply 
such  as  its  mechanical  efficiency  determines. 
Nothing  justifies  the  excessive  behef  which 
imputes  to  the  "white"  or  "gray"  matter 
(accessory  to  sensory  and  motor  activity) 
the  function  of  secreting  the  intelligence 
and  the  will,  as  the  liver  does  bile.  A 
confusion  in  terms  seems  to  imply  it.  The 
brain  is  an  organ,  Hke  the  stomach  and 
the  heart;  and,  just  as  the  digestive  or 
circulatory  systems  have  their  precise  func- 
tion, the  nervous  system  has  its  own,  which 
is  the  production  of  sensation  and  move- 
ment. 

I  use  the  word  "production"  designedly. 
It  would  be  inexact  to  see  in  the  nerves 
simply  threads  bound  together,  agents  inert 
in  themselves,  of  a  double  transmission; 
"afferent"  (as  they  say)  here;  "efferent" 
there;  ready  indifferently  to  telegraph  a 
noise,  a  shock,  or  an  order  of  the  inner  mind. 
The   apparatus   assures  the  opening  of  a 

[  167  ] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 

cerebral  wave,  constant  as  a  pulse,  to  all  the 
body.  Sensation  is  not  a  passive  phenome- 
non; it  is  a  special  state  of  activity.  I 
compare  it  to  a  vibrating  cord,  on  which 
the  note  is  formed  by  the  correct  position 
of  the  fingers.  By  sensation,  I  verify 
facts;  by  movement,  I  control  action. 
But  the  vibration  is  constant. 

And  this  view  permits  us  to  advance  our 
investigation  further.  All  vibration  implies 
a  source,  as  all  circles  have  a  center.  The 
source  of  nerve  vibration  resides  in  the 
brain,  which,  separated  from  all  the  other 
organs,  fills  the  entire  cavity  of  the  sealed 
skull. 

The  rule  of  analogy,  at  the  outset,  for- 
bids seeing  in  it  anything  but  the  agent  of 
reception,  of  transformation,  and  of  diges- 
tion (so  to  speak)  of  the  initial  commotion. 
One  can  imagine  that  this  duty  has  devolved 
especially  on  the  peripheric  matter  which 
the  white  substratum  forms,  as  an  agency 
of  amphfication  and  of  composition;  and 
finally,  that  the  complicated  organs  of  the 
base  of  the  brain  are  so  many  laboratories, 
setting  the  scene  for  distribution,  arranging 
keyboards,  installing  the  apparatus  of  sub- 
stitution and  of  regulation. 

We  must  now  consider  the  vibration 
itself.  By  this  I  mean  a  double  movement, 
[i68] 


THE     BRAIN 


—  one  by  which  a  body  proceeds  from  a 
point  to  return  to  it.  Here  is  the  element 
we  seek,  —  the  symbol  which  constitutes 
essentially  all  life.  The  vibration  of  our 
brain  is  the  agitation  of  the  source  of  life, 
the  emotion  of  matter  in  contact  with  that 
Divine  Unity  whose  possession  constitutes 
our  typical  personality. 

This  is  the  umbihcal  cord  of  our  depend- 
ence. The  nerves,  and  the  contact  that 
they  give  us  with  the  exterior  world,  are 
but  the  instruments  of  our  knowledge;  and 
it  is  in  this  sense  alone  that  they  are  the 
conditions  of  it.  As  one  makes  trial  of  a 
tool,  so  we  fashion  the  education  of  our 
senses.  We  learn  to  know  the  world 
through  its  contact  with  our  intimate 
identity. 

The  brain,  then,  is  nothing  but  the 
organ  of  animal  intelhgence,  sensitive  only 
in  the  animals,  intelhgent  in  man.  But, 
since  it  is  merely  a  particular  organ,  it 
cannot  be  the  support  of  the  mind,  nor  of 
the  soul.  We  could  not  do  this  discourtesy 
to  any  part  of  our  body,  which  is  the  active 
and  living  image  of  God.  The  human 
soul  is  that  by  which  the  human  body  is 
what  it  is,  —  its  act,  its  continually  operat- 
ing seed,  and  (as  the  Schools  would  say)  its 
form. 

[  169  ] 


LEAVING  THE  LAND 

THE  sea  has  come  to  seek  us.  She  pulls 
at  our  cable,  she  draws  the  side  of  our 
boat  away  from  the  gangway.  With  a 
great  quiver,  it  increases  httle  by  little  the 
distance  that  separates  it  from  the  encum- 
bered wharf  and  the  port  of  seething  life. 
And  we  follow  the  heavy  tranquil  water  in 
its  lazy  windings.  Here  is  one  of  the 
mouths  by  which  the  earth  disgorges, 
spewing  its  thick  muddy  waters  forth  to 
mingle  with  the  tangled  grasses  of  the  sea. 
Of  the  soil  where  we  once  dwelt,  there 
remains  only  its  crude  color,  ready  to 
liquefy.  And,  right  before  us,  a  fire  low 
down  in  the  limpid  air  indicates  the  horizon 
and  the  desert. 

:  While  we  are  eating,  I  feel  that  the  boat 
has  stopped.  Through  its  body,  and 
through  my  own,  there  is  freer  breathing. 
The  pilot  is  disembarking.  Under  the 
electric  light  on  his  dancing  canoe,  he 
salutes  us  with  a  wave  of  the  hand.  They 
cast  off  the  ladder,  and  we  depart.  We  de- 
part in  the  hght  of  the  moon ! 

[  170] 


LEAVING     THE     LAND 

And  I  see  the  curved  line  of  the  horizon 
before  me,  like  the  frontier  of  immeasur- 
able slumber.  All  my  heart  despairs,  with 
the  thick  sob  one  utters  falhng  asleep,  as 
the  shore  recedes  behind  us  and  fades  out 
of  sight.  Ah,  Sea,  it  is  thou!  I  re-enter. 
There  is  no  bosom  so  sweet  as  Eternity, 
and  no  security  comparable  to  uncircum- 
scribed  Space.  Our  news  hereafter  will  be 
that  each  evening  will  bring  us  the  moon, 
rising  on  our  left.  I  am  delivered  from 
change  and  from  diversity.  Here  there 
are  no  vicissitudes  but  those  of  day  and 
night;  no  solicitation  but  the  sky's  before 
our  eyes,  and  no  repose  but  the  bosom  of 
these  great  waters  which  reflect  it. 

Cleansing  purity!  Here  we  may  be  ab- 
solved in  the  Absolute.  What  matter  now 
the  fermentation  of  people,  the  intrigues  of 
marriages  and  wars,  the  operation  of  gold 
and  of  economic  forces,  and  all  the  confused 
scheme  of  things  below?  Everything  is 
simphfied  to  the  immediate  act,  according 
to  the  multifold  passion  of  men  and  of 
things.  Here  I  possess  the  central  rhythm 
in  its  essence:  the  alternating  rising  and 
setting  of  the  sun,  and  a  simple  fact;  the 
appearance  of  the  constellations  on  the 
horizon  at  an  appointed  hour. 

And  all  day  long  I  study  the  sea  as  one 

[1711 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


Studies  the  eyes  of  a  woman  who  under- 
stands. I  follow  its  reflection  with  the 
attentiveness  of  one  who  listens.  In  com- 
parison with  this  pure  mirror,  how  fare  the 
gross  intricacies  of  your  tragedies  and  your 
ostentations? 


[  172] 


1900  — 1905 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

OF  this  sense  of  expectation  through  all 
the  universe  (and  of  my  regret  still  to 
be  alive)  one  is  the  sign  and  the  other  the 
expression.  One  is  Duration  itself,  and  the 
other  —  suddenly  sonorous  —  marks  a  mo- 
ment. One  measures  silence,  the  other 
probes  obscurity.  One  sohcits  me  and  the 
other  fascinates  me.  Oh  sentinel,  oh  bitter 
patience,  —  double  vigilance!  While  one 
flames,  the  other  apportions. 

The  night  takes  away  our  witnesses,  we 
no  longer  know  where  we  are.  Lines  and 
tints,  our  personal  arrangement  of  the 
world  aH  around  us  (whose  center  we  carry 
about  with  us,  according  to  the  angle  from 
which  our  eye  gazes  at  the  moment),  these 
are  no  longer  present  to  show  us  our  posi- 
tion. We  are  reduced  to  ourselves.  Our 
vision  has  no  longer  the  visible  for  limit,  but 
the  invisible  for  its  cell.  Homogeneous, 
close,  impassive,  compact,  in  the  bosom  of 
this  obscurity  the  lamp  is  clear  and  definite. 
It  appears  full  of  life,  it  contains  its  own 
oil.  By  virtue  of  its  flame  it  is  able  to 
drink  itself.     It  attests  that  of  which  all  the 

[  175] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


abyss  is  the  absence.  As  it  has  taken  a 
sufficient  supply  in  the  evening,  it  will  last 
until  rosy  light  is  in  the  sky,  until  the 
dispersing  of  vapors  hke  the  fumes  of  new 
wine.  It  has  a  golden  provision  to  last  till 
dawn.  As  for  me,  let  me  not  die  in  the 
night!  Let  me  endure  until  the  day! 
Let  me  not  be  extinguished  except  in  hght! 
But  if  the  night  closes  our  eyes,  it  is  in 
order  that  we  may  listen  the  more.  Not 
only  with  the  ears,  but  with  the  hearing  of 
our  soul  —  breathing  as  fishes  do.  Some- 
thing accumulates,  in  the  darkness:  a 
number  that  must  be  sounded.  I  hear  the 
bell,  like  the  necessity  for  speech,  like  our 
inner  silence  summarized,  like  the  Word 
speaking  in  secret.  During  the  day  we 
hear  a  whirlpool  of  ceaseless  words  weaving 
through  the  activities  of  human  beings. 
The  night  extinguishes  them,  and  only  the 
measuring  of  Time  remains.  (I  see,  I 
listen).  What  does  this  clock  apportion? 
What  is  measured?  What  strikes?  What 
is  Time?  Here,  to  betray  it,  is  the  artifice 
of  hourglass  and  clepsydra;  the  snare  of  a 
clock  forces  the  hour  to  declare  itself.  I 
see  it;  the  duration  of  time  is  reported  to 
me;  I  am  ruled  by  this  march  of  time  and  of 
all  the  hours.  I  have  my  escape,  I  contain 
the  creative  pulse;   outside  of  me  the  blow 

[176] 


THE     LAMP     AND     THE     BELL 

which  suddenly  resounds  declares  all  the 
hidden  effort  of  my  heart,  the  motor  and 
the  worker  in  my  body. 

Just  as  the  navigator  follows  the  coast 
of  a  continent,  verifying  all  the  lights  one 
after  another;  so,  midway  between  ho- 
rizons, the  astronomer  standing  on  the 
moving  earth,  like  a  mariner  on  his  bridge, 
calculates  the  exact  hour  with  his  eyes  on 
the  most  complete  sextant  of  all.  The 
enormous  scheme  of  things,  the  innumer- 
able universe  is  reduced  to  the  estabhshing 
of  these  proportions,  to  the  elaboration  of 
these  distances!  There  is  no  trembhng 
of  the  stars  that  does  not  influence  our 
emotions,  no  design  woven  by  the  harmony 
of  the  planets  in  which  we  may  not  be  in- 
volved. There  is  no  star  revealed  by  the 
microscope  on  the  photographic  plate  to 
which  I  may  be  indiff'erent.  The  hour 
strikes,  and  by  its  act  the  immense  sky 
seems  to  hghten.  Between  the  pendulum 
buried  in  the  heart  of  a  sick-room  and  the 
flaming  angel  which  successively  reaches 
in  the  sky  afl  the  points  prescribed  by  its 
circular  flight,  there  is  an  exact  response. 
I  shaH  not  compute  another  hour;  I  shall 
not  face  it  with  less  decision  for  afl  that. 


[  177] 


THE  DELIVERANCE  OF 
AMATERASU 

NO  mortal  man  can,  without  incongruity, 
honor  the  moon  by  a  pubhc  devotion. 
She  is  the  computer  and  the  fabricator  of 
our  months,  the  spinner  of  a  thread  avari- 
ciously measured.  In  the  clear  light  of 
day  we  rejoice  to  see  everything  in  harmony, 
beautiful  like  an  ample,  multicolored  fabric. 
But  as  soon  as  the  night  is  come,  I  find 
the  fatal  shuttle  weaving  again  across  the 
web  of  the  sky.  My  friend,  may  thine  eye 
alone  avow  it,  glamoured  by  its  evil  light, 

—  and  those  five  fingernails  which  shine 
on  the  handle  of  thy  lute!  But  the  sun, 
always  pure  and  young,  ahvays  the  same, 

—  intensely  radiant,  intensely  white,  — 
does  it  abate  each  day  the  flowering  of  its 
glory,  the  generosity  of  its  face?  And 
who  can  look  at  it  without  being  forced 
to  laugh  also?  With  a  laugh  as  free,  then, 
as  when  you  gather  up  a  pretty  httle  child, 
give  your  heart  to  the  good  sun!  Why, 
in  the  most  shallow  waters,  in  the  narrowest 
puddle  left  at  the  turning  of  the  pubhc 
road,  it  wiH  find  something  to  mirror  its 

[178] 


DELIVERANCE     OF     AMATERASU 

ruddy  face;  and  shall  the  secret  soul  of 
Man  alone  remain  so  sealed  that  it  refuses 
such  an  image,  and  shows  in  the  depth  of 
its  shadows  no  touch  of  gold? 

Scarcely  had  the  shabby  race  of  sons  of 
the  soil  commenced  to  dabble  in  the  mud  of 
the  nourishing  earth  than,  pressed  by  the 
furious  desire  to  eat,  they  forgot  the  splendid 
sun,  the  eternal  epiphany  in  which  they 
were  permitted  to  hve.  As  the  engraver, 
applying  himself  to  cut  his  block  according 
to  the  grain  of  the  wood,  occupies  himself 
but  httle  with  the  lamp  above  his  head, 
which  hghts  him;  just  so  the  farmer,  re- 
ducing his  whole  view  to  that  of  his  two 
hands  and  the  black  back  of  his  buffalo, 
caring  only  to  plow  his  furrows  straight, 
forgot  the  luminous  heart  of  the  universe. 
Then  Amaterasu  was  indignant  in  the  sun. 
She  is  the  soul  of  the  sun  by  which  it  shines, 
and  she  is  the  breath  in  its  sounding  trum- 
pet. **When  the  beasts,"  she  said,  ''have 
filled  their  bellies,  they  love  me,  they  re- 
joice with  simphcity  in  my  caresses;  they 
sleep  in  the  warmth  of  my  glance,  lulled 
by  the  regular  beating  of  their  blood  within 
their  bodies,  the  inner  rhythm  of  their 
crimson  hfe;  but  Man,  brutal  and  impious, 
is  never  sated  with  eating.  All  day  long 
the  flowers   adore   me,   and   nourish  their 

[179] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


devout  hearts  in  the  splendor  of  my  face. 
Only  Man  is  badly  set  on  his  stem.  He 
deprives  me  of  the  sacred  mirror  in  him 
that  was  made  for  my  reflection.  Let  us 
fly,  then,  let  us  hide  this  beauty  that  is  not 
honored!"  Like  a  dove  which  shps  into 
a  hole  in  a  waH,  she  descended  into  a  deep 
cavern  at  the  mouth  of  the  river  Yokigawa 
and,  with  an  enormous  rock,  hermeticafly 
sealed  the  enclosure. 

It  grew  dark  —  not  the  ordinary  black- 
ness of  night,  but  the  very  darkness  there 
was  before  the  world  was  made.  Crude 
and  atrocious  blackness  fifled  the  living 
earth.  There  was  a  strange  vacancy  in 
the  sky;  space  had  lost  its  center,  the  per- 
son of  the  sun  had  vanished  like  some  one 
who  disappears,  like  a  judge  who  leaves  his 
court.  Then  these  ingrates  knew  the 
beauty  of  Amaterasu.  How  they  searched 
in  the  drear  air!  A  great  sigh  ran  through 
afl  the  islands,  —  the  agony  of  penitence, 
the  abomination  of  fear.  As  in  the  evening 
the  mosquitoes  in  myriads  fiH  the  stagnant 
air,  the  earth  was  delivered  to  the  brig- 
andage of  demons,  and  of  the  dead  whom 
one  could  recognize  by  this  sign:  that  they 
had  no  navels.  As  a  pilot  covers  his  nearest 
lights,  the  better  to  see  into  the  distance; 
so,  by  the  suppression  of  this  central  lamp, 
[i8o] 


DELIVERANCE     OF     AMATERASU 

space  widened  around  them.  And,  from  a 
part  of  the  horizon  unseen  before,  they  saw 
a  strange  whiteness  beyond  the  sky,  like 
the  frontier  of  a  neighboring  world:  the 
reflection  of  another  sun. 

Then  afl  the  gods  and  goddesses,  the 
familiar  spirits  of  the  earth,  which  assist 
Man  and  are  his  companions  hke  horses 
and  oxen,  —  all  were  moved  by  the  miser- 
able cries  of  the  hairless  creatures,  Hke  the 
barking  of  Httle  dogs;  and  they  all  as- 
sembled at  the  mouth  of  the  river  Yoki- 
gawa,  spirits  both  of  the  sea  and  of  the  air, 
—  like  herds  of  buffalo,  like  schools  of  her- 
ring, like  flocks  of  starlings.  There  the 
virgin  Amaterasu  was  hidden  in  a  cave  in 
the  earth,  like  a  honeycomb  in  the  hoHow 
of  a  tree,  like  a  treasure  in  a  jug. 

"A  lamp  is  not  extinguished  except  by 
a  more  brifliant  hght,"  they  said.  "Ama- 
terasu is  there!  We  do  not  see  her,  but  we 
know  that  she  has  not  left  us.  Her  glory 
has  not  sufl'ered  diminution.  She  is  hidden 
in  the  earth  hke  a  cricket,  hke  an  ascetic 
in  the  retreat  of  his  own  thoughts.  How 
shaH  we  make  her  come  out?  What  appeal 
can  we  make  to  her,  and  what  can  we  ofl^er 
her  that  wifl  be  as  beautiful  as  she?" 

Then  from  a  stone  fallen  from  heaven 
they  made  a  mirror,  very  pure,  completely 

[i8i] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 

round.  They  tore  down  a  pine-tree  and 
swathed  it  in  garments  of  gold  and  scarlet, 
like  a  doll.  They  adorned  it  Kke  a  woman, 
and  they  put  the  mirror  upon  it  for  a  face. 
And  they  placed  this  sacred  gohei  exactly  in 
front  of  the  cavern,  which  contained  the 
indignant  soul  of  hght. 

What  voice  could  they  choose  powerful 
enough  to  pierce  the  earth,  to  say,  "Ama- 
terasu,  I  am  here!  I  am  here,  and  I  know 
that  you  are  here  also !  Show  yourself  to  me, 
oh  vision  of  my  eyes!  Oh  Life,  come  out 
of  the  sepulcher!"  The  famihar  voice,  the 
first  voice  that  she  hears  when  she  passes 
the  horizon  of  human  life:  the  cock  caHing 
from  the  farms  on  every  side  at  the  first 
crimson  streak  of  dawn,  —  his  is  the  cry  of 
light  itself,  the  trumpet  that  no  obscurity 
can  stifle!  Night  or  day,  indifferent  to 
the  visible  presence  of  his  goddess  or  to 
her  withdrawaf,  indefatigably  he  carries 
on  his  fanfare,  with  precision  he  articulates 
his  faith.  So  before  the  buried  Amaterasu 
they  led  the  great  white  bird.  And  he 
crowed.  And,  having  crowed,  he  crowed 
again. 

Then,  as  if  they  could  not  fail  to  respond 
to  his  summons,  all  the  noises  of  hfe  awoke: 
the  murmur  of  the  day;  active,  inter- 
minable  speech;  the  sound   of  thousands 

[182] 


DELIVERANCE     OF     AMATERASU 

thronging  the  hours;  the  vibrating  word 
whose  rhythm  is  meted  out  by  the  bonze 
with  his  mallet  of  wood  in  the  depth  of  his 
temple.  All  these  sounded  at  once,  —  all 
the  gods,  responding  to  their  names.  They 
were  very  timid,  very  faint.  However 
Amaterasu  in  the  earth  heard  them,  and 
was  astonished. 

And  here  one  must  insert  the  image  of 
Uzume,  just  as,  in  the  little  popular  books, 
her  picture  interrupts  the  black  shower 
of  letters.  She  had  invented  all  this,  the 
dear  goddess.  She  had  concocted  this 
wonderful  strategy.  And  now  she  danced 
intrepidly  on  the  stretched  skin  of  her  drum, 
frantic  with  hope;  and  all  that  she  could 
find  to  lure  out  the  sun  was  a  poor  little 
song  invented  for  children:  Hito  Juta 
miyo  .... 

Hito  Juta  miyo 
Itsu  muyu  nana 
Yokokono  tari 
Momochi  yorodzu, 

as  one  might  say :  One,  two,  three.  Jour,  five, 
six,  seven,  eight,  nine,  ten,  a  hundred,  a 
thousand,  ten  thousand!  —  and  as  if  one  said 
also:  All  oj  you,  look  at  the  door!  Her 
Majesty  has  appeared.  Hurrah!  Our  hearts 
are  filled  with  happiness. 

[183] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 

Then  in  the  fury  of  the  dance  she  untied 
her  belt,  she  threw  it  impatiently  aside; 
and,  with  draperies  flowing,  laughing  and 
crying,  she  stamped  and  bounded  on  the 
elastic  and  resonant  skin  which  she  struck 
sharply  with  her  feet.  And,  when  they  saw 
her  robust  and  buxom  form  hke  that  of  a 
little  girl,  relief  came  into  the  hearts  of  all 
and  they  began  to  laugh.  The  sun  is  no 
longer  in  the  sky,  and  still  there  are  not 
lamentations,  hut  laughter?  Amaterasu 
heard  them,  and  her  heart  was  filled  with 
chagrin.  Unable  to  conquer  her  curiosity, 
she  softly  opened  the  door  of  the  cavern: 
*'Why  are  you  laughing?'* 

A  great  ray  swept  across  the  assembled 
gods;  it  leaped  the  border  of  the  earth; 
it  iHumined  the  moon  in  the  empty  sky. 
Suddenly  the  Day-Star  flamed  in  the  hfeless 
heavens.  As  an  overripe  fruit  bursts,  be- 
hold!—  the  blind  earth  could  no  longer 
contain  the  jealous  eye,  the  burning  fire  of 
curiosity  placed  in  its  center,  the  woman 
who  is  the  sun!  "Why  are  you  laughing?" 
—  "Oh  Amaterasu!"  said  Uzume. 

And  all  the  gods  in  unison  cried,  "Oh 
Amaterasu!"  prostrating  themselves. 

"Oh  Amaterasu,  you  were  not  with  us; 
you  thought  you  had  withdrawn  your  face 
from  us;    but  look,  here  is  some  one  more 

[184] 


DELIVERANCE     OF     AMATERASU 

beautiful  than  you  are!  Look!'*  she  said, 
showing  the  gohei,  showing  the  sacred  mirror 
which,  concentrating  the  flame,  produced 
an  insupportable  brilhance.     ''Look!'' 

She  saw;  and,  jealous,  raptured,  aston- 
ished, fascinated,  she  took  one  step  out  of 
the  cavern;  and  instantly  the  night  was 
gone! 

All  the  great  worlds,  that  turn  about  the 
sun  as  an  eagle  circles  his  prey,  were  as- 
tonished to  see  the  day  shining  in  such  an 
unaccustomed  place  and  the  little  earth 
all  devoured  with  glory,  like  a  chandelier 
which  disappears  in  its  own  hght. 

She  took  one  step  out  of  the  cavern,  and 
immediately  the  strongest  of  the  gods  leaped 
forward  to  close  the  door  behind  her. 
Before  her  image,  surrounded  by  seven 
rainbows,  —  adorable  spirit,  living  fire,  from 
which,  with  the  divine  face,  emerged  only 
two  hands,  two  pink  feet,  and  the  curls 
of  her  hair,  —  so  young,  so  formidable 
stood  this  brilliant  and  essential  soul! 
And,  hke  the  swallow  which  Hfts  itself  in 
larger  and  larger  circles  above  the  spark- 
ling fields,  so  Amaterasu,  reconquered  by 
her  own  image,  mounted  toward  her  celes- 
tial throne.  And  Time  began  again  with 
its  first  day! 

At  the  doorway  of  the  Shinto  temples, 

[  185  ] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


by  means  of  a  cord  of  straw,  the  earth  still 
guards  against  the  disappearance  of  its 
light;  and,  in  the  last  recess  of  the  bare 
sanctuary,  they  hide,  instead  of  the  Eleu- 
sinian  fire,  a  little  round  mirror  of  polished 
metal. 


[i86] 


A  VISIT 

THERE  are  long  cries  before  any  one 
opens,  —  furious  batterings  upon  the 
patient  portal,  —  before  the  servant,  grown 
conscious  of  this  "concert,"  comes  to  rec- 
ognize the  stranger  deposited  on  a  litter 
in  the  midst  of  his  porters,  before  the  door. 
For  here  there  is  no  deep-sounding  bell, 
no  button  which,  by  the  pulling  of  a  wire 
attached  through  the  walls  to  secret  mech- 
anism, sets  off  a  sudden  explosion,  Hke  the 
squeal  of  a  beast  that  one  pinches.  The 
Black  Mountain  is  the  quarter  where  the 
old  families  live,  and  the  silence  is  profound. 
The  space  that  Europeans  would  reserve 
for  recreation  and  games,  the  Chinese  con- 
secrate to  retreat.  In  this  animal  honey- 
comb, between  these  streets  seething  with 
an  unclean  humanity,  they  reserve  wide 
unused  spaces,  —  empty  enclosures  that  are 
the  inheritance  of  some  distinguished  person, 
and  that  cloister  his  household  gods.  Only 
a  noble  roof  can  possess  the  enormous 
shade  of  these  banyans  older  than  the  city, 
and  of  these  vines  which  droop  under  the 
weight  of  their  purple  globes. 

[187] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


I  have  entered.  I  am  waiting  all  alone  in 
the  little  parlor.  It  is  four  o'clock,  and  the 
rain  has  ceased,  —  or  is  it  still  raining? 
The  earth  has  received  its  fill  of  water; 
the  soaked  leaves  breathe  freely.  As  for 
me,  under  this  somber  and  friendly  sky 
I  know  the  compunction  and  peace  which 
one  feels  after  having  wept.  Facing  me  is 
a  wall  with  an  uneven  coping,  where  three 
square  windows  open,  each  crossed  with 
porcelain  bars  imitating  bamboo.  As  they 
adjust  a  "grille"  over  diplomatic  papers, 
which  isolates  the  important  words,  so  they 
have  apphed  this  screen  of  triple  openings 
to  the  wide  countryside  of  trees  and  water, 
and  have  reduced  it  to  a  single  theme 
repeated  as  in  a  triptych.  The  frame 
defines  the  picture;  the  bars,  which  let  my 
sight  pass,  exclude  me,  and,  better  than  a 
closed  and  bolted  door,  make  certain  that 
I  remain  inside. 

My  host  does  not  arrive.     I  am  alone. 


[i88] 


'       THE  RICE 

IT  is  our  very  teeth  that  we  sink  in  the 
earth,  in  this  plow  that  we  plant  there; 
and  even  now  our  bread  eats  there  as  we 
shall  eat.  At  home,  in  the  cold  north,  it 
is  the  sun  who  kneads  our  bread;  he  ripens 
the  field  as  the  open  fire  cooks  our  pancakes 
and  roasts  our  meat.  With  a  strong  plow- 
share we  open  a  furrow  in  the  solid  earth 
where  that  crust  of  bread  is  formed  which  we 
cut  with  our  knife  and  grind  between  our 
teeth. 

But  here  the  sun  does  not  serve  only  to 
heat  the  domestic  sky  hke  a  furnace  full 
of  coals.  One  must  take  precautions  with 
it.  When  the  year  commences,  the  waters 
overflow.  These  vast  fields  without  slopes, 
scarcely  separated  from  the  sea  that  they 
continue,  that  the  rain  soaks  without  ever 
draining  away,  take  refuge  under  the  sheet  of 
water  in  which  the  peasants  fix  a  thousand 
rice-frames.  The  work  of  the  village  is 
to  enrich  the  mud  by  means  of  many 
buckets;  on  all  fours  the  farmer  strokes 
the  mud  and  dilutes  it  with  his  hands. 
The   Mongol   does    not   nibble   bread,    he 

[  189  ] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


snatches  it  with  his  Kps,  he  gulps  it  down, 
without  fashioning  a  semi-hquid  aliment 
of  it  in  his  mouth.  So  the  rice  grows,  as 
it  is  cooked,  in  steam;  and  the  intention  of 
its  people  is  to  furnish  all  the  water  it  will 
need  to  sustain  the  heat  of  the  celestial 
furnace.  Also,  when  the  waters  rise,  the 
chain-pumps  sing  like  crickets  everywhere; 
and  they  do  not  have  recourse  to  the  buf- 
falo. Side  by  side,  clinging  to  the  same  bar 
and  pressing  the  red  handle  with  knees  in 
unison,  men  and  women  watch  the  kitchen 
of  their  field  as  a  housewife  watches  a  smok- 
ing dinner.  And  the  Annamite  carries  the 
water  in  a  sort  of  spoon;  in  his  black  sou- 
tane, with  his  httle  tortoise  head,  as  yellow 
as  mustard,  he  is  the  weary  sacristan  of 
the  mire.  How  many  reverences  and  genu- 
flections there  are  when,  with  a  bucket 
fastened  to  two  cords,  the  pair  of  nhaques 
go  seeking  in  all  the  hollows  for  juicy  mud 
with  which  to  anoint  the  earth  and  make 
it  good  to  eat. 


[  190] 


THE  PERIOD 

I  STOP.  There  is  a  period  to  my  walk 
as  to  a  phrase  that  is  finished.  It  is 
the  title  of  a  tomb  at  my  feet,  at  this  turn- 
ing where  the  road  descends.  From  there 
I  take  my  last  view  of  the  earth.  I  survey 
the  country  of  the  dead.  With  its  groups 
of  pines  and  ohve  trees,  it  spreads  out 
between  the  deep  fields  that  enclose  it. 
Everywhere  there  is  consummate  plenty: 
Ceres  has  embraced  Persephone.  Inescap- 
ably this  marks  the  ultimate.  I  recognize 
at  the  foot  of  these  unchangeable  moun- 
tains the  wide  line  of  the  river.  I  define 
our  frontier,  I  accept  it.  My  exile  is  sym- 
bohzed  by  this  island  crowded  with  the 
dead,  devoured  by  its  harvests.  Stand- 
ing alone  amid  a  buried  people,  my  feet 
among  the  names  spoken  by  the  grass, 
I  watch  this  cleft  in  the  mountains,  through 
which  the  soft  wind,  like  a  growling  dog, 
has  tried  for  two  days  to  force  the  enor- 
mous cloud  it  has  drawn  from  the  waters 
behind  me. 

It  is  done;    the  day  is  completely  gone. 
There  is  nothing  left  but  to  return,  trav- 

[  191  ] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 


ersing  again  the  road  that  leads  me  to 
the  house.  At  this  halt,  where  rest  the 
carriers  of  coffins  and  buckets,  I  look  behind 
me  for  a  long  time  at  the  yellow  road  where 
the  living  fare  with  the  dead,  which  ends 
like  a  red  period  upon  the  crowded  sky. 


[  192] 


THE  TOAST  TO  A  FUTURE    DAY 

1HAVE  climbed  to  the  highest  point  of 
the  mountain  to  drink  a  toast  to  a  future 
day,  —  to  a  new  day,  to  one  that  will  come, 
—  perhaps  it  will  succeed  this  very  night. 
To  the  highest  point  of  the  mountain,  in  this 
cup  of  ice  that  it  lifts  to  the  very  lips  oj  Aurora! 
I  have  stripped  and  rushed  into  it.  It 
is  so  full  that,  when  I  enter,  the  water 
overflows  hke  a  cataract.  I  dance  in  the 
ebuHition  of  the  source  like  a  grape-seed  in 
a  glass  of  champagne.  I  cannot  distinguish 
this  gushing  basin  in  which  I  splash  from 
the  whirlpool  of  air  separated  from  me  by 
a  narrow  brink.  Far  below  me  circles  the 
clamorous  eagle.  Beautiful  Aurora,  like  a 
shaft  thou  art  sped  here  from  the  sea  below 
among  the  islands!  Drink!  that  I  may 
feel  the  quivering  of  thy  insatiate  hp  as 
deep  as  the  submerged  plants  to  which  I 
sink.  Let  the  sun  rise!  that  I  may  see  the 
light  shadow  of  my  suspended  body  painted 
beneath  me  on  the  sand  of  this  basin  ringed 
with  the  seven-colored  rainbow. 


[  193] 


THE  DAY  OF  THE  FEAST  OF  ALL 
THE   RIVERS 

ON  this  day  of  the  feast  of  all  the  rivers 
we  are  going  to  sakite  our  own,  which 
is  wide  and  rapid.  It  is  the  outlet  of  the 
country,  it  is  the  force  enclosed  in  her  sides, 
it  is  the  liquefaction  of  the  substance  of  the 
earth,  it  is  the  outpouring  of  the  water 
hidden  in  the  most  secret  of  her  folds,  of 
milk  under  the  impulsion  of  the  ocean 
which  suckles  her.  Here,  under  the  good 
old  granite  bridge;  between  the  boats  from 
the  mountain  which  bring  us  minerals  and 
sugar,  and,  on  the  other  side,  the  many- 
colored  junks  of  the  sea,  which  from  their 
anchorage  direct  toward  the  impassive  piles 
their  great  patient  eyes,  like  those  of  beasts 
of  burden ;  the  river  pours  out  through  sixty 
arches.  What  an  uproar,  what  a  white 
foam  it  makes,  when  Aurora  sounds  her 
trumpet,  —  when  the  Evening  recedes,  to 
the  beating  of  drums.  Here  are  no  piers 
like  those  dreary  egresses  of  the  Occident. 
On  a  level  with  the  river,  in  a  domestic 
familiarity,  each  one  comes  to  wash  linen, 
to   draw   the  water   for  supper.     And,   in 

[  194] 


FEAST     OF     ALL     THE     RIVERS 

the  Springtime,  in  the  turbulence  of  his  Joy, 
this  dragon  with  undulant  coils  invades 
our  streets  and  our  houses.  He  effaces 
with  one  lick  of  his  tongue  the  accumulated 
filth  of  the  village. 

But  today  is  the  feast  of  the  river.  We 
celebrate  carnival  with  it,  in  the  rolling 
tumult  of  yellow  waters.  If  you  cannot 
pass  the  day  in  a  backwater,  sunk  to  the 
eyes  Hke  a  buffalo  in  the  shade  of  your  boat, 
at  least  do  not  neglect  to  offer  to  the  sun 
of  noon  pure  water  in  a  bowl  of  white  porce- 
lain. For  the  coming  year  it  will  be  a  cer- 
tain remedy  against  colic.  And  this  is 
not  the  time  to  be  avaricious.  One  may 
unseal  the  heaviest  jug,  drink  from  a  golden 
bowl  or  earthenware  vessel,  one  may  drink 
from  the  very  neck  of  the  bottle  the  tea  of 
the  Fourth  Month!  Let  every  one,  on  this 
afternoon  of  flood-tide  and  full  sunlight, 
come  to  feel,  to  stroke,  to  clasp,  to  ride  this 
great  municipal  water-beast,  which  flees 
with  endless  coils  toward  the  sea. 

Moving  throughout  its  length,  trembling 
from  bank  to  bank  with  sampans  and  with 
boats;  where  the  guests,  clothed  in  silk 
like  vivid  bouquets,  drink  and  enjoy  them- 
selves; all  is  light  and  the  sound  of  drums. 
From  here,  from  there,  from  everywhere, 
pirogues  with  dragons'  heads  appear  and 

[  195  ] 


THE     EAST     I     KNOW 

defile,  propelled  by  the  arms  of  an  hundred 
naked  paddlers,  who  move  to  the  delirious 
rhythm  of  this  large  yellow  man  in  the  midst, 
as  with  both  hands  he  beats  out  a  demoniac 
march.  How  close  together  they  seem, 
—  in  one  wave,  the  very  spirit  of  the  cur- 
rent! How  active  this  crowd  of  bodies, 
plunged  to  the  waist!  On  the  bank  where 
I  embark  a  woman  is  washing  her  linen. 
The  bowl  of  vermihon  lacquer  into  which 
piles  the  clothing  has  a  border  of  gold 
that  shines  and  glows  in  the  sun  of  this 
festival.  Brute  glance  of  reflected  bright- 
ness; symbohc  eye  of  this  day  of  the 
honorable  River! 


[196] 


THE  GOLDEN  HOUR 

OF  all  the  year  this  is  the  most  golden 
hour!  As  the  farmer  at  the  end  of 
the  season  realizes  the  fruits  of  his  labors 
and  receives  their  price,  so  the  season 
comes  in  a  gold  to  which  all  is  transmuted, 
in  the  sky  and  on  the  earth.  I  wander 
through  the  lanes  of  the  harvest,  up  to  the 
neck  in  ^old;  I  rest  my  chin  on  the  table 
of  the  field  which  flashes  in  the  sunlight  to 
its  farthest  boundary.  Going  toward  the 
mountains,  I  surmount  a  sea  of  grain. 
Between  the  banks  of  harvest,  the  im- 
mense, dry  flame  of  the  morning-colored 
plain,  where  is  the  old  dim  earth?  Water 
is  changed  into  wine;  oranges  gleam  in 
the  silent  branches.  All  is  ripe;  grain  and 
straw,  and  the  fruit  with  the  leaf.  It  is 
indeed  golden.  All  is  finished,  and  I  see 
that  all  is  true.  In  the  fervent  effort  of 
the  year  all  color  has  evaporated.  Sud- 
denly, to  my  eyes,  the  earth  is  hke  a  sun. 
Let  me  not  die  before  the  golden  hour! 


[  197] 


DISSOLUTION 

AGAIN  I  am  carried  back  over  the  in- 
different liquid  sea.  When  I  am  dead, 
nothing  can  hurt  me.  When  I  shall  be 
interred  between  my  father  and  mother, 
nothing  will  make  me  suffer  more.  They 
cannot  jeer  any  longer  at  this  too  ardent 
heart.  The  sacrament  of  my  body  will 
dissolve  in  the  interior  of  the  earth;  but,  hke 
a  most  piercing  cry,  my  soul  will  repose 
in  the  bosom  of  Abraham.  Now  everything 
is  dissolved,  and  with  a  dull  and  heavy  eye 
I  search  about  me  in  vain  for  the  familiar 
land  and  the  firm  road  under  my  feet,  — 
and  for  that  unkind  face!  The  sky  is  noth- 
ing but  fog,  and  Space  is  nothing  but  water! 
You  see  it!  Everything  is  blurred;  and 
all  about  me  I  must  search  in  vain  for  line 
or  form.  For  a  horizon  there  is  nothing 
but  the  cessation  of  color  in  darkness. 
All  matter  is  resolved  into  water  alone, 
like  the  tears  I  feel  coursing  down  my 
cheeks.  All  sound  is  like  the  murmur 
of  sleep  when  it  breathes  to  us  all  that  is 

[198] 


DISSOLUTION 


most  crushing  to  our  hopes.  I  shall  have 
searched  in  vain,  I  shall  find  nothing  more 
beyond  me  —  neither  that  country  which 
might  have  been  my  home,  nor  that 
well-Ioved  face! 


[  199] 


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